✮ stassie ✮

23 she/her chronic reblogger

[shymagnolia]

so I got into grad school today with my shitty 2.8 gpa and the moral of the story is reblog those good luck posts for the love of god

[shymagnolia]

okay so i just got my dream job??? a week after applying to it?? and now i’m thinking….maybe this is the good luck post

[flagellant]

…..not even six hours later i got an offer of a well paying full time long-term job with free room and board in queens in nyc, allowing me independence and a way to escape an abusive situation and an unhealthy environment

likes charge reblogs cast, folks, this is the good luck post

[coffee-or-hot-cocoa]

i need all the help i can get for finals

[finnglas]

Hey so

the last time I reblogged this post right before I got a great job, in a permanent work-from-home position, with benefits, retirement, and a salary literally 3x what I was making before, doing something I really like. 

So you know. 

This might be the real one, y’all.

[barnesonly]

First Time

bucky barnes x reader

summary: you tell Bucky you’ve never had sex before and he makes it his mission to show you what it means to feel safe, wanted, and loved.

word count: 4,3k

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. established relationship, curse words, first time, dirty talk, praising, fingering, PiV, unprotected sex, breeding.

The bar was warm with low amber lighting, the kind that made everyone look softer. You were curled into the corner of a booth, half a drink in front of you, half-listening to the hum of chatter and clinking glasses all around. Bucky was beside you, his shoulder brushing yours, fingers resting loosely along the back of your seat like they always did when he was comfortable. At ease.

He’d made some comment about 80s music—how it was too synth-heavy for his taste—and you’d rolled your eyes, laughing into the rim of your glass. “You still think Sinatra’s the peak of civilization, Barnes. Your opinion doesn’t count.”

He grinned, that lazy, lopsided thing he did when he was trying not to smile too much. “I just think music went downhill when people stopped writing love songs you could slow dance to.”

You tilted your head at him. “They didn’t stop. We could slow dance to this, you know.” The song playing was barely more than a mellow indie track, not at all meant for dancing, but you saw the flicker of amusement in his eyes. He didn’t challenge it. He just looked at you like he always did—quietly, like you were a question he wanted to take his time answering.

Conversation shifted the way it always did with him—effortless. Somewhere between funny stories and half-serious dreams about leaving the city for a week, you found yourself fidgeting with your straw, heartbeat starting to tick faster for no real reason except that you wanted to tell him something. Something real.

You hadn’t planned to say it. It just… slipped out. “I’ve never done it, you know? Sex, I mean.”

The words landed between you like a stone dropped into still water. Not loud, not dramatic—just there. You looked down immediately, as if you could take it back, embarrassed for reasons you couldn’t fully explain. But Bucky didn’t laugh. Didn’t say anything, not at first.

He turned his body slightly toward you, his hand slipping down from the booth to rest gently on the back of your neck—thumb brushing just beneath your hairline in a way that was so instinctive, so him.

“You’ve never?” he asked, voice low, cautious but not judgmental. Just surprised. Curious. “Is that something you meant to tell me tonight?”

You let out a breath, shaky but sure. “I just… I wanted to. I didn’t want you to think I was waiting for the perfect moment or anything. It’s not a big moral thing, or a promise I made. I’ve just never felt ready. Or safe. Not with anyone.”

That was when he moved his hand from your neck to your knee beneath the table, his palm warm through your jeans, grounding. He nodded slowly, like he’d made a silent vow to himself in that moment.

You swallowed, throat a little tight, heart a little loud in your ears. But it wasn’t nerves this time. Not fear. It was something steadier—like the quiet edge of a leap you’d already decided to take.

“I want to,” you said softly.

His eyes flicked back to yours, sharp but careful, like he was making sure he’d heard you right.

You wet your lips, not breaking the gaze. “I want to do it—with you. I trust you. And I’m… I’m ready.”

For a second, he just looked at you. Like he was cataloguing everything about this moment—your expression, your voice, the slight tremble in your fingers as they rested near your drink. You could feel the shift in him, subtle but powerful, like the way the air changes before rain. Like he’d been holding something back and now he didn’t have to anymore.

But even then, he didn’t rush it. He didn’t move closer or tighten his grip. His voice, when it came, was barely more than a whisper. “You sure?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t.”

He exhaled slowly, like he was holding back something he didn’t quite have words for. Then he gave you the softest smile—one that curved just a little at the corner, crinkled faintly near his eyes, and made your chest ache with something full and warm.

“Okay,” he said simply.

And the way he said it—it wasn’t just about sex. It was about you. About the kind of care that didn’t ask for permission once, but every step of the way.

He brushed his thumb over your knee, slow and tender, and then he leaned in just enough to rest his forehead lightly against yours. “Thank you for trusting me.”

———

The apartment was dark when you stepped inside, lit only by the soft spill of streetlight through the blinds. You slipped your shoes off by the door, the muffled thump of Bucky’s boots following close behind. Neither of you said anything right away. It didn’t feel like it needed words.

You moved through the space slowly, deliberately, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the calm that had settled between you. Bucky’s hand brushed the small of your back as you passed him, and it lingered for a moment longer than usual—just enough to make your breath catch.

When you turned to look at him, he was already watching you. His eyes were darker in the low light, softer too. You weren’t sure who moved first, but suddenly you were in front of him, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt as his hands rose—one settling against your waist, the other brushing your jaw.

“I want you to tell me,” he murmured. “Every step of the way. If you change your mind, we stop. If something feels wrong, we stop.”

You nodded, and your voice came out quiet but clear. “I’ll tell you.”

His hand slid up to cradle your cheek, thumb tracing the curve beneath your eye. Then he leaned in, slow and careful, and kissed you. Not hungrily. Not with any urgency. Just… tenderly. Like he meant to memorize it.

The kind of kiss that made everything else fade.

When he pulled back, your foreheads touched. His breath warmed your skin.

“Bedroom?” he asked softly.

You nodded again.

He didn’t rush you. He let you take his hand, let you guide him there. The room was dim, just the low glow of a lamp left on by the bedside. You stood together in the stillness for a moment, your hands resting over his heart.

“I’ve thought about this,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

“Me too,” he said, and you could hear the emotion tucked behind it. “For a long time.”

You reached for the hem of your shirt, but his hands covered yours gently.

“Let me,” he said. “If that’s okay.”

You let him.

He undressed you slowly, reverently—like each piece of clothing was a layer of something sacred. And when you stood bare in front of him, you didn’t feel nervous. You felt seen.

Bucky’s eyes dragged over you, slow and hungry, but not in a way that made you feel exposed. In his gaze, you weren’t something to consume. You were something to cherish.

“Christ,” he murmured, voice thick. “Look at you…”

You felt heat bloom across your chest, your neck, down your stomach, but before the self-consciousness could settle in, his hands were on you again—gentle and grounding. He cupped your face first, tilting it up so your eyes met his.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, like it was a truth carved in stone. “You hear me?”

You nodded, but it wasn’t enough for him.

He leaned in, pressed a kiss to your lips—slow, but deeper this time. His tongue brushed yours just once, just enough to steal your breath before he broke away and trailed his mouth down your neck, nipping lightly at your skin until you gasped.

“I love you so much, baby,” he whispered against your throat. “All of you.”

One hand slid down your spine, the other cradling the curve of your waist as he lowered his head. His mouth found the swell of your breast and he kissed it—softly at first, then again, slower, more deliberate. His tongue flicked against your nipple and you let out a soft sound you hadn’t meant to make, and that made him groan low in his throat.

“Fuck,” he muttered, eyes flicking up to your face. “That sound—don’t hold it back. I wanna hear you.”

He took your nipple into his mouth then, sucking gently, one hand squeezing your hip like he was trying to stay grounded. The warmth of his tongue, the slight scrape of his teeth—it sent a sharp pulse of heat down between your thighs, and you shifted instinctively, pressing closer.

You felt his breath hitch against your skin. Felt the way his body reacted to yours—the tension in his grip, the hardness growing against the front of his boxers. He wanted you, badly, but he still held himself back, still moved slowly.

He pulled back just far enough to look at you again, lips wet and swollen.

“You’re shaking,” he said softly.

“I’m not scared,” you whispered.

He smiled at that. “Good.”

Then his hand slid down, gliding over the curve of your hip, across your thigh, and back up again—like he was mapping you, learning the lines of your body by touch alone. He leaned in and kissed your stomach, just below your navel, then a little lower, lips brushing hot against sensitive skin.

“You tell me when you want to stop, okay?” He murmured, breath warm against you. „I want to make you feel so good, baby.”

You felt his breath ghost lower, his lips barely brushing the inside of your thigh—and still, your heart was racing. Not from what he was doing. From what he wasn’t doing yet.

“Bucky…” you said, barely louder than a breath.

He lifted his head immediately, eyes searching yours. “You okay?”

You hesitated, your hand reaching out to touch his hair, his cheek—just to keep him close.

“I’m not scared of you,” you said, trying to explain. “It’s just… I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

His brow furrowed gently, fingers brushing soothingly along your hip. “That’s okay. You don’t have to.”

You swallowed hard. “I’ve never… I mean—” Your voice caught, but you forced it out. “I’ve never even touched myself before.”

You felt his breath hitch.

He blinked, stunned into stillness for just a second. “Never?”

You shook your head. “I Just—I didn’t know what to do. What I was supposed to feel. I didn’t want to do it just to…do it.”

His expression changed—something between disbelief and awe. His gaze swept over you again, slower now, deeper, like he was seeing you in a new light. Reverent. Almost wrecked by how much he wanted to be the first to show you any of this.

“Baby…” he whispered, and there was a rasp in his voice now, something thick with emotion. He leaned in, kissed you again—first your lips, then down your jaw, your neck, your chest—before murmuring against your skin, “Can I show you?”

Your breath caught and you nodded.

“I need to hear it,” he said softly, fingers brushing your thigh, inching inward. “Tell me I can touch you.”

“Yes,” you breathed, your voice trembling. “Please… I want you to.”

He groaned—quiet but guttural—and kissed your stomach as his hand slid between your thighs, parting them slowly, gently, like he was unwrapping something fragile and sacred. His touch was warm, callused, careful.

He cupped you first, his palm resting over your heat, not moving—just holding you there, letting you adjust to the weight of it. His thumb stroked lightly over your mound, and the touch sent a jolt through you—shocking in its softness.

“You’re already so warm,” he whispered, almost to himself. “So soft…”

Then his fingers moved lower, finding the slick wetness gathering there. He exhaled hard through his nose, groaning low. “Fuck, baby—this all for me?”

You whimpered, nodding.

He found your clit with the lightest touch of his thumb, barely circling it, just enough to make your hips twitch. He smiled against your skin when you gasped, kissed your thigh again as he worked slow, teasing little motions.

“Does that feel good?” he asked, voice rough, eyes never leaving your face.

“Y-Yeah,” you breathed, overwhelmed by the sensation.

“Good. I wanna make you feel even better.”

He slid one finger lower, gathering your slick before gently slipping it inside—just a little, just enough to make you moan softly. Then he pulled out, circled your clit again, watching your reactions like they were the most important thing in the world.

Your hips moved without thinking, chasing his touch as your body began to burn in places you hadn’t even known they could. His finger slipped in again, a little deeper this time, and he added another—a slow, careful stretch as his thumb resumed its tender circles on your clit.

“Good girl,” he whispered, voice wrecked with how much he wanted this for you. “So fucking good.”

Bucky worked his fingers in slow, careful strokes—just two of them, deep and curling gently, finding that spot inside you that made your breath stutter. His thumb never stopped circling your clit, just the lightest pressure, building something you hadn’t ever felt before.

You gasped, hips twitching as your thighs began to shake, but he kept you grounded—his body half draped over yours, his mouth near your ear, his hand steady between your legs like an anchor.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “You feel that? How close you are?”

You whimpered, nodding—eyes fluttering shut as pleasure pulsed tighter and tighter in your core. It was overwhelming and new and dizzying, like your whole body was being rewired under his touch.

“Don’t be scared of it,” he whispered, pressing a kiss just beneath your ear. “You’re doing so good for me, sweetheart. Just let go. Let me have it.”

Your hand gripped the sheets. The muscles in your thighs were trembling now, your breath hitching as his fingers moved faster—not rough, just sure. Perfect.

“You’re right there,” he coaxed, voice thick and low and soothing even as you writhed beneath him. “Come for me. I’ve got you. I won’t stop. Just feel it—don’t fight it.”

You didn’t even know what your body was doing anymore. Everything tightened at once, your belly curling in, your back arching, and then the heat snapped—a blinding wave crashing through you that left your mouth falling open in a broken cry.

Bucky didn’t stop. He slowed, softened, but didn’t pull away—his thumb still tracing slow, lazy circles as your orgasm rolled through you like a tide. His other hand cradled your cheek, grounding you through the aftershocks.

“That’s it,” he whispered, kissing your forehead. “That’s it, baby… fuck, you’re so beautiful like this.”

You were shaking—your thighs still twitching, chest heaving—but you’d never felt more cared for, more safe in your own skin. His touch, his voice, the way he looked at you like you’d just shown him something holy—it all made the moment feel bigger than just release.

He rested his forehead against yours.

“You did so well, baby,” he whispered, voice warm and a little breathless. “Did you like it?”

You nodded quickly, your voice caught somewhere in your throat. “Yeah… I—I didn’t know it could feel like that.”

A slow smile tugged at his lips, proud and reverent. He kissed your temple, then your cheek, and finally hovered just a breath from your mouth.

“You want more?” he murmured. “You want me now?”

Your breath hitched again—less from nerves this time and more from the deep, aching yes in your body. It pulsed through you, full of need and trust and that dizzying high he’d just given you.

You met his eyes, and your voice was quiet—but steady.

“I want you.”

He searched your face, checking one last time—his thumb brushing your cheek, his eyes soft but darkened with want. “You’re sure?”

You nodded. “I’ve never been more sure.”

And something in him melted. Or maybe snapped. His mouth was on yours in the next second, kissing you deep, like he needed to taste those words again. His body pressed flush against you, his skin so warm, his chest solid as your fingers slid over the ridges of muscle down his back.

You felt the hard line of him through his boxers—hot and thick and undeniable. It made you tremble all over again, but this time, it wasn’t fear. It was need. You wanted him, all of him, and you didn’t want to wait anymore.

Bucky pulled back just enough to whisper, “Lay back for me, sweetheart,” as he slid off the bed, only long enough to tug his boxers down and kick them aside.

You saw all of him then—broad shoulders, scarred skin, his cock flushed and heavy against his stomach. He was so beautiful and most of all—yours.

And he looked at you like you were everything.

He climbed back onto the bed slowly, settling between your legs with his hand sliding up your thigh, his lips brushing your jaw as he whispered, “We’ll go slow. You tell me if you need anything. If it’s too much, if you change your mind… anything. Okay?”

You nodded again, heart in your throat.

“I’ll take care of you,” he promised. “Every second.”

You reached for him, pulling him into a kiss as he lined himself up. You felt the head of his cock brush against your entrance—hot, firm, and so much—and you gasped, hips twitching involuntarily.

“Easy,” he whispered, kissing your cheek. “I’ve got you.”

He slid in slowly. Inch by inch. His jaw clenched, his brows furrowed, but his eyes stayed locked on yours the whole time. You felt the stretch—unfamiliar and thick and deep—but never painful, not with the way he held you, the way he kept whispering against your skin.

“You’re doing so good, baby. So fucking good—taking me so perfect…”

He bottomed out with a soft groan, burying his face in your neck as you wrapped your arms around him, holding him close.

“Just breathe,” he whispered. “We’ll stay right here. Let your body get used to it.”

And he didn’t move—not at first. He just held you, kissed your collarbone, brushed your hair back from your face. Let you feel the fullness of him inside you, the stretch slowly easing into something warm, something grounding.

Then, when your body began to relax around him—when your hips lifted slightly, seeking more—he pulled back just an inch and rolled his hips in slow, shallow thrusts.

You gasped. His name tumbled from your lips without thinking.

“That’s it,” he whispered, voice breaking. “You feel that? That’s us, baby.”

Each stroke was tender, deep, steady. He kissed you through it—your mouth, your jaw, your cheeks—like he couldn’t stop touching you, couldn’t stop feeling you.

Your fingers tangled in his hair. Your thighs wrapped around his waist. Every sound you made—every breathless moan, every whispered more—drove him closer to the edge, but he never lost control. He stayed right there with you.

“This is what you deserve,” he murmured, fucking you just a little deeper. “Every time. Every single time, I’m gonna love you like this.”

You arched beneath him, overwhelmed by the pleasure, the emotion, the connection. It wasn’t just sex. It was him. It was you. And it was everything you didn’t know you needed—wrapped up in sweat and whispered promises, and the soft sounds of your name on his lips.

Bucky was still moving slow, steady, like he had all the time in the world. Like he was afraid to break you, even as his hips rolled deeper, pressing into that spot inside you that made your legs tremble and your breath catch every time.

“Bucky—” you gasped, voice already wrecked.

He lifted his head, looked down at you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. His hand slid between your bodies again, and his thumb found your clit—slick and swollen and so sensitive—rubbing soft circles in time with his thrusts.

Your back arched off the bed as a cry slipped from your lips.

“I know, baby,” he whispered. “You’re gonna come again, aren’t you?”

You nodded desperately, fingers digging into his shoulders. “It’s too much—I don’t know If I can—”

“Yes, you can.” His voice dropped, husky and warm and so gentle. “Let go for me. Just let it happen, I’ve got you.”

His thumb kept working, his cock hitting that perfect spot with every slow grind of his hips, and it built fast this time—tighter, hotter, your body clenching down around him as your climax rose like a wave you couldn’t outrun.

Your thighs squeezed around his waist. Your mouth fell open, but the sound came out broken, breathless, as the orgasm took over—ripping through you like heat and light, making you shake under him, every nerve set on fire.

Bucky groaned, loud, when he felt you come around him. “Fuck, that’s it—feel so good, sweetheart—so tight—so perfect—”

He kept thrusting through it, chasing the edge now, his control unraveling with every ragged breath. You were still fluttering around him, your body trembling, and he buried his face in your neck with a growl as his hips jerked one last time.

“I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna come—”

You felt him stiffen, heard the deep, broken moan that tore from his throat as he spilled inside you—hot and deep, his cock twitching with every pulse. His hands gripped your waist like he didn’t want to let go. Like he couldn’t believe this was real.

And when it passed—when the air settled again and the world stopped spinning—he stayed right there. Buried inside you, chest pressed to yours, both of you breathing hard in the quiet.

He kissed your jaw. Your shoulder. The corner of your mouth. Then whispered, breathless and wrecked, “You okay?”

You nodded, still dazed, your fingers brushing back through his hair.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I’m really okay.”

He smiled against your skin. “You were incredible.”

“So were you.”

He pulled the blankets up around you both, still inside you, still holding you like you were something fragile and precious. His lips pressed one last kiss to your temple.

You weren’t sure when the room got quiet again. When the haze of your orgasm faded and your body finally relaxed into the bed. Bucky stayed close the entire time—still half over you, one arm around your waist, the other brushing tenderly through your hair.

He kissed your cheek, then your temple. His breathing was still uneven, but he was coming down too. Letting the moment settle. Letting you settle.

“You okay?” he asked softly, lips barely moving against your skin.

You nodded, but your voice came out faint. “Yeah. Just… processing, I think.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you—his hand still cupping the side of your face, thumb gently brushing under your eye. “Yeah?” he murmured. “Too much?”

You shook your head. “No. Not too much. It was good. Really good. Just… a lot.”

He gave a soft, breathy laugh at that, something between relief and affection. “Yeah. It was.”

You watched him for a second, then whispered, “You didn’t expect that, did you?”

His smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I didn’t expect you to trust me like that. But I’m really… really fucking honored you did.”

That made your chest ache. You reached out, fingertips brushing his jaw, still not used to the feeling of touching him like this.

“I didn’t know it could feel this…good,” you said.

He leaned in again, nose brushing yours, voice low. “You deserve to feel good. Always.”

You laid there for a while, breathing him in. Letting your body calm, your mind go quiet. He didn’t rush to clean up or move away. Just held you, skin against skin, his fingers tracing idle, soothing shapes along your arm and hip.

Eventually, he murmured, “Are you sore at all?”

“A little,” you admitted.

He nodded, pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “Want me to grab a towel? Or water?”

You smiled, tired but soft. “Both?”

“Coming right up, sweetheart.”

He kissed your forehead before slipping out of bed. You watched him pad into the bathroom, moving quietly, like he didn’t want to disturb the quiet between you.

When he came back, he wiped you down gently with warm water, murmuring little apologies when you flinched, then handed you a glass of water.

You drank it slowly, still tucked into the covers. When he slid back into bed beside you, you turned into him without thinking.

His arm came around you easily. You laid your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. Safe. Warm.

“Are you okay?” you asked, quieter now.

He looked down at you, brows lifting slightly. “Me?”

You nodded.

“Yeah,” he said after a pause. “I’m more than okay. I just don’t know if I deserve any of this.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just let your fingers trail over his skin, the scar near his ribs, the faint shiver that went through him when you touched it.

“You do,” you whispered. “I wouldn’t have let you this close if you didn’t.”

He looked at you for a long time then—eyes soft, unreadable. And then he pulled you in closer, pressing his forehead to yours.

„I love you,” Bucky whispered back. „More than anything in this stupid world.”

⋆⁺₊✧ MASTERLIST

💌 tag list: @iamthatonefangirl @buckytakethewheel @thatsbucknasty @buckybarneswife125 @peanutbutt3rcup @avengemepercy @gottareadthosefics2

[barnesonly]

Teasing

possessive!bucky barnes x reader

summary: there’s non. this fic is pure, filthy porn. look at the warnings!!

word count: 3,7k

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. curse words, desperation, dirty talk, degrading kink, praising kink (just a very tiny bit), teasing, dacryphilia, PiV, unprotected sex, dom!bucky, overstimulation, breeding, cockwarming, fully consensual by both parties although not explicitly stated.

Your problem was that Bucky knew how much you wanted him. How much you craved him. And he loved to take advantage of that.

He always waited for the quietest moments—when your guard was down, when your body was warm and soft in his arms, and your mind had just started to slip toward sleep.

Like now.

Spooning you in bed, his arm curled around your waist, his breath slow and steady against the back of your neck. His hand, resting innocently on your thigh, begins to move. Slow at first—just the lazy drag of his fingertips along your skin, barely noticeable, like he’s tracing the shape of your body from memory.

But then it shifts. Higher. Bolder.

Over the swell of your hip, the curve of your ass—his touch deliberate now, possessive. You bite your lip, heat already pooling low in your stomach.

And then he does it. Rolls his hips against you just enough for you to feel him—hard and heavy through the thin fabric of his boxers, pressing perfectly into the curve of your ass.

It’s too perfect. The kind of pressure that makes your breath catch, your thighs clench involuntarily.

You whimper. Quiet. Needy.

That’s when he moves his hand again. Slipping beneath the waistband of your panties, slow and teasing, fingers grazing over your slick heat like he’s testing you—barely touching, just enough to make you ache.

“You’re already wet,” he murmurs against your neck, voice thick and low. “Were you hoping I’d do this?”

You don’t answer—not with words.

Just a soft, pathetic little whimper, your body already arching back into him, desperate for more of his touch.

But instead of giving it to you, Bucky pulls his hand away.

You whine at the loss, but then you feel the subtle shift behind you—his hips rocking back, the rustle of fabric as he pushes his boxers down and strokes himself, slow and lazy, like he has all the time in the world.

“Shhh,” he murmurs against your shoulder, voice thick with heat. “I’ve got you.”

Then you feel it. The warm, heavy weight of him pressed right against your soaked folds. Not inside. Not even close. Just resting there—teasing—and then he starts to drag it down. Up. Down again.

Barely any pressure.

Just enough to spread your slick. Just enough to make your breath hitch and your thighs twitch with need.

“Fuck,” he groans softly, voice strained. “You feel that, baby? How wet you are for me?”

He keeps doing it. Slow, maddening glides of his cock through your folds, the tip catching on your clit every time in a way that makes you whimper again—quieter this time, almost like you’re embarrassed by how badly you want him.

And that just makes him grin.

“You were gonna fall asleep like this?” he breathes, voice dark and amused. “So needy and wet, and you weren’t even gonna tell me?”

The way he moves—slow and lazy—leaves you trembling and aching. It’s unbearable. It feels like nothing and so much at the same time.

A gasp stutters out of you when the head of his cock brushes your clit a little harder than before, hips twitching. Your fingers clutch the sheets, desperate for something to ground you.

“Bucky…” you breathe, a plea more than a protest.

He hums low behind you, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. His free hand—strong, steady—slides up to hold your thigh, keeping you spread just how he wants.

“Shh…” he whispers. “I wanna take my time.”

His cock slides down again, hot and soaked in your slick, nudging at your entrance—but he doesn’t push in. Not yet.

Just rocks his hips again, back and forth, dragging himself through your folds with that same agonizing pressure, like he loves how desperate you’re getting.

And god, he does.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “Feel how your pussy’s just soaking for me? So fucking soft… all this mess for nothing, baby.”

He smiles when you let out another whimper, your hips bucking back against him instinctively, chasing more friction. But he tightens his grip on your thigh, holding you right where he wants you.

“Easy,” he says, voice low and almost cruel in its calmness. “You’ll take it when I give it to you. Not a second sooner.”

His tip nudged your entrance again, teasingly slow, just enough for your breath to catch and your hips to twitch back against him.

A soft, tiny whimper escaped your lips before you could stop it.

“You like that, baby?” he murmured, smug and low, cock dragging slowly through your slick again—coated, hot, deliberate.

You nodded frantically, desperation clawing at your throat.

“Please, Buck…”

Your voice was barely more than a breath, shaky and wrecked with need.

But he didn’t give in. Didn’t push in.

Instead, he just chuckled darkly and kept doing exactly what he was doing—grinding himself between your folds, up and down, the tip of his cock gliding over your clit in featherlight passes. He was soaked in your arousal now, the sound of it obscene in the quiet of the room.

“You’re fuckin’ dripping,” he whispered, voice thick with lust, his mouth close to your ear. “And all I’m doin’ is rubbing it on you.”

You let out another whimper, pressing your thighs together—but his hand was still gripping one, keeping you spread for him, helpless.

“Mm-mm,” he smirked, thrusting a little harder through your folds now, enough to make you feel it.

“Please, Bucky, I can’t—”

“You can,” he growled, nipping at your shoulder. “You’ll take it when I say. I wanna feel you sob for it first.”

To say you were underwhelmed would be an understatement.

It was maddening. Infuriating.

You thought you’d come the moment he pushed inside you—but he hadn’t. He hadn’t even tried. Just kept rubbing his cock through your clit, again and again, slow and teasing, like it was a game to him. And you were losing.

You were trembling. Wrecked. Your body burning with a need so sharp it felt cruel.

You looked back at him over your shoulder, eyes glassy, lips parted. Your gaze already dazed—tears stinging at the corners, threatening to spill.

And Bucky saw it.

Saw the pure begging in your eyes.

And finally—finally—he gave you what you wanted.

He pushed in. Just the tip.

Fuck, it felt so good—hot and thick and perfect, stretching you open with that first inch. Your mouth dropped open in a broken gasp, a choked sound of relief.

But he didn’t go any deeper.

Just held you there, filled barely enough to satisfy anything, and began to thrust—slow and shallow. Just the tip, dragging back and forth with a torturous rhythm that had your walls fluttering, clenching desperately around him every time he moved.

Your hands fisted the sheets. Your legs shook.

It was almost cruel. Almost.

“Bucky—” you sobbed, the sound choked and desperate. “Please—just—”

“Shhh,” he cooed, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder as his tip nudged deep again, then pulled out—slow and slick. “You feel that, baby? Feel how tight you are around just this?”

You nodded, broken and breathless.

“I could keep you like this all night,” he whispered, voice dark and aching. “Just my tip. Just enough to make you cry for it.”

And god—he was.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

Your body was shaking, walls fluttering around the teasing stretch of him—just the tip—and it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

So you tried. Just a tiny shift of your hips, angling back to take him deeper, even just a little. To feel more of him. Anything.

But he felt it instantly.

His hand snapped up and caught your chin, firm and unforgiving, forcing you to turn your head and look at him. His eyes were dark, wild with control and desire, but there was no softness in his grip.

“Try that again,” he said, voice low and sharp, “and I’ll pull out.”

The words hit like a slap—sharp, cruel, threatening in the way only he could make sound loving.

Your breath hitched, tears threatening again, but you didn’t move.

You wouldn’t.

“Good girl,” he muttered, releasing your chin slowly, dragging his thumb along your jaw as if to soothe what he just said—but his hips stayed steady, cock still buried in that shallow depth, moving in and out with that same teasing rhythm that had you falling apart.

“That’s better,” he whispered. “You’ll take what I give you. Nothing more.”

He pressed in again, slow and deep this time—but still not all the way, just a little more than before, enough to feel every inch like a gift. Your mouth dropped open, eyes fluttering shut.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice thick with smug affection. “Already fucked dumb and I haven’t even given you half of it.”

You tried to stay still. You really did.

But your body was trembling, thighs shaking, your core clenching so hard around nothing it almost hurt. His tip kept stroking inside you, slow and shallow, perfect—and still so fucking insufficient.

It was too much.

Your breath hitched. Your face crumpled. And then the tears spilled—hot, helpless streaks running down your cheeks as a sob tore from your throat.

“Bucky—” you choked, voice wrecked, broken, desperate. “I can’t… I need it, please…”

He stilled for a moment.

Then you felt him lean in closer, his hand coming up to brush your hair off your face—and then down again, fingers curling around your jaw to tilt your face toward him.

And he saw it.

The tears.

Your flushed cheeks, your trembling lips, your eyes blown wide with need and soaked with helpless want.

“Look at you,” he murmured, a slow smirk curving at the edge of his mouth. “So pathetic.”

His voice was low. Cruel. But there was affection under it—desire.

He loved seeing you like this. Ruined. Falling apart. All for him.

“Crying ‘cause you’re not getting cock,” he whispered, dragging his thumb across your wet cheek. “That’s what you wanted, huh? Thought if you sobbed pretty enough, I’d give it to you? Just because you know how fucking much I love seeing you cry for it?”

“Yes, Bucky—yes, please,” you gasped, your voice cracked and wrecked, thick with tears and need.

You didn’t even know what you were begging for anymore—more, everything, anything—as long as it was him.

Bucky groaned low in his throat, still cradling your cheek, his cock barely buried in you, just the tip stroking maddeningly slow. He leaned in, mouth brushing your ear as he rolled his hips once—deep enough to make your breath catch, not deep enough to give you what you needed.

“Maybe I should just hold my cock inside you like this all night, huh?” he whispered darkly. “Keep you stuffed, all warm and desperate, just like this.”

Your whole body tensed, a shiver running down your spine as your walls fluttered around him.

“You’d take it,” he murmured, grinding shallowly into you, teasing. “Wouldn’t even fight it. Just lay here, crying, dripping all over me while I keep you filled—so full, so fucking needy.”

He smiled against your skin, nipping lightly at your shoulder.

“Maybe that’s what you really want. Not to be fucked—just to be used.”

Your breath hitched. Your hips twitched back, chasing him—again.

He stilled.

“Ah ah,” he warned, tightening his grip on your thigh. “You move again and I’ll pull out for real. And you won’t get it back tonight. Understand me?”

“Please, Bucky,” you sobbed, your voice cracking under the weight of it. “Please, I can’t take it anymore.”

He didn’t move. Just kept you there—cock teasing the edge of where you needed him, thick and hot and cruelly still.

“Promise me, baby. Promise you’ll be good for me,” he murmured, voice dark and firm against your ear. “Say it.”

“Fuck—yes!” you cried, nodding frantically. “I’ll be good! I’ll be fucking good, I promise, I swear—just—please, Bucky—please—”

God, it was pathetic. The way you begged. The way you’d say anything just to get filled.

“Good girl,” he said low, almost a growl—and then he did it.

He sank into you, slow but deep, burying every inch until his hips were flush with yours and you couldn’t even breathe.

Your mouth fell open in a silent gasp, eyes wide and wet as the stretch stole every thought from your head. He didn’t wait. Didn’t let you adjust. He pulled back and slammed in again—once, twice—hard, deep, perfect—

And you came.

Just like that.

Your whole body seized, a strangled sob ripping from your throat as your pussy clenched down around him, fluttering wildly, soaking his cock as your orgasm tore through you like a fucking earthquake.

Bucky let out a dark, amused laugh.

“Look at you now…” he groaned, grabbing your chin and turning your face toward him again, forcing you to meet his gaze. “You’re such a pathetic fucking whore—coming so fast, just ‘cause I finally gave it to you.”

Your face burned, breath hiccuping in your chest as he kept moving—deep and slow now, like he had all the time in the world to drag it out of you again.

“Gonna give me more, you hear me?” he rasped, voice thick and relentless as his cock worked into your trembling cunt. “You’re gonna be a good girl and take it. Gonna let me fuck more out of you.”

His grip on your chin tightened. “Ain’t done with you yet, sweetheart.”

Your orgasm was still rippling through you—sharp, overwhelming, your body twitching and trembling as he kept thrusting into your overstimulated cunt.

You whimpered, trying to shift away from him, instinctively pulling your hips forward to escape the relentless drag of his cock.

But Bucky didn’t let you. He grabbed both your wrists in one fluid movement and slammed them down into the mattress above your head—his metal arm locking them there effortlessly, unmovable, unbreakable.

You gasped, back arching as he pressed his weight into you from behind, his chest flush against your spine.

“You tryin’ to run, sweetheart?” he growled into your ear, cock still moving inside you, deep and steady. “After all that fucking begging? After you promised me you’d be good?”

You cried out—high and wrecked—your body flinching with every stroke, too sensitive, too full, but god, you let him.

Because it was Bucky. Because it was his cock splitting you open, keeping you full, keeping you grounded.

“That’s what I thought,” he rasped, snapping his hips forward hard enough to make your breath punch out of you.

He fucked into you freely now—his other hand gripping your waist tight, holding you in place as your arms stayed pinned helplessly above your head, your wrists burning under the cool pressure of vibranium.

Every thrust was overwhelming. Too much.

But you loved it.

Tears streaked down your face again, your thighs shaking with the force of it.

“You’re takin’ it,” he muttered, breath heavy. “Fuck, baby—you’re still clenching so tight for me.”

Your voice cracked on another sob, but you didn’t beg him to stop.

You didn’t want him to. Even when it was too much—you still wanted more.

You were falling apart. Absolutely wrecked.

Bucky’s cock dragged through your soaked, overstimulated cunt with punishing rhythm—deep and relentless, every thrust sending sparks through your spine, making your legs quake and your voice catch on raw sobs.

Tears streamed down your cheeks. You could barely breathe.

Your wrists were still pinned above your head, trapped beneath the cold grip of his metal arm. You had nowhere to go. No way to escape the brutal pace of him driving into you like he owned you.

Because he did.

“Fuck—Bucky—please—” you choked out, voice trembling. “I—I can’t—”

“Oh, but you can,” he growled against your ear, his voice low and thick with satisfaction. “You’re gonna come again for me. You want to, don’t you?”

Your walls fluttered, a helpless answer.

“I feel it,” he snarled. “You’re squeezing my cock like a fucking vice. This messy little pussy’s begging to come again.”

You sobbed again, your whole body twitching as you felt it building—again. Too much. Too soon.

But just as you were about to tip over the edge—

He stopped.

Just kept himself buried deep, holding you tight and not moving.

You let out a broken, desperate cry, struggling against his grip.

“You want it?” he rasped. “You wanna come again, baby?”

“Y-Yes! Please, Bucky, please—I need it, I need it—”

“Then thank me,” he growled, thrusting once—hard and deep enough to make your back arch.

“What—?”

“You fucking thank me,” he hissed. “Thank me for ruining you. Say it. Or I’ll pull out and leave you dripping and empty.”

And god—you were so far gone, so desperate, so needy, you didn’t even hesitate.

“Thank you—fuck—thank you, Bucky!” you sobbed, tears spilling freely now. “Thank you for ruining me—thank you, please—I wanna come—I wanna come so bad—”

“That’s my good girl,” he growled—and slammed into you again.

Once. Twice. Again.

And that was it.

You shattered around him, a broken scream tearing from your throat as your cunt clamped down hard, milking his cock in wave after wave of pulsing, messy bliss. Your body convulsed under him, completely overwhelmed, mind blank with nothing but pleasure and his name.

“Fucking ruined,” Bucky groaned, fucking you through it with brutal, merciless strokes. “That’s it, baby. Give it to me. Let me feel that pussy break for me.”

Your orgasm still had you trembling—your cunt clenching and fluttering around him, overstimulated and dripping, your cries raw and broken.

Bucky growled low behind you, his thrusts getting rougher, more erratic, his breath hot and heavy on your neck.

And then he snapped. He slammed in deep and stayed there, his body tensing against yours as a low, guttural moan tore from his throat.

“Fuck—fuck, baby—”

You felt it. The sudden, hot flood of him spilling inside you—thick ropes of cum pumping into your already ruined cunt, and there was so much, you could feel it start to leak around his cock almost instantly.

You whimpered, twitching beneath him, too sensitive, too full, too much.

But he didn’t pull out. He stayed buried in you, balls pressed flush against your swollen, aching pussy, his metal arm still pinning your wrists above your head.

And you cried. Silent, overwhelmed tears streaking your face as your body convulsed from the aftershocks—still trembling, still spread open, still his.

Bucky leaned in close, breath brushing your ear, voice low and wicked.

“Mmm… you feel that?” he whispered, rocking his hips once, slow and deep, just to press it in further. “Feel my cum inside you? Leaking out already… but you’re gonna hold it, sweetheart. You hear me?”

You whimpered, nodding weakly, and he chuckled darkly.

“That’s right. Keep me warm, baby. Keep it all right there—fuckin’ stuffed full like you were made for this.”

His free hand trailed down your side, fingers splaying over your lower belly, pressing just enough to make you feel it even more.

“You feel so tight around me still,” he murmured. “Still fucking pulsing. Like your pussy’s thanking me for ruining it.”

You let out a shaky sob, and he kissed your shoulder softly—sweet, almost gentle, a cruel contrast to the mess he left you in.

“My perfect little cum-drunk whore,” he breathed. “So good for me. So full. So fucking mine.”

You were shaking—mind blank, tears streaking down your cheeks, his cum still hot and thick inside you.

And Bucky… god, he still didn’t stop. He stayed deep, cock twitching inside you, and then he started moving again. Slow now. Deep. Unhurried.

Fucking his release into you like he was claiming you with every inch.

You sobbed softly, overstimulated and overwhelmed, your arms finally dropping when he let go of your wrists—but only for a moment.

His hand moved immediately to your jaw, firm and guiding, turning your tear-streaked face toward him.

“Look at me,” he whispered, and you did—barely. Dazed. Broken.

His mouth caught yours in a kiss—hot, slow, lingering. His tongue slid gently against yours as his cock kept moving inside you, dragging through your soaked walls with a rhythm that felt soothing, almost comforting.

And then he didn’t stop there. He kissed you again—just as slow—but this time it wasn’t just your mouth.

He pressed his lips to your cheeks, damp with tears. Gentle kisses, one after another, as if he could wipe them away with his mouth. As if he wasn’t the reason you were crying in the first place.

Your jaw. Your temple. The corner of your eye.

Each kiss was soft. Deliberate. Soothing.

His mouth found your ear, and he whispered, voice rough but steady:

“So good,” he placed a kiss to your neck. “Such a good fuckin’ girl,” then another to your jaw.

But you were still crying. Still wrecked. Still whimpering into his mouth.

“You took it so good for me, baby,” he murmured against your lips, fingers cradling your face now, gentler than before. “So fuckin’ messy, so desperate—my perfect little thing.”

You whimpered, clenching around him again.

“Such a good girl,” he rasped, voice thick with lust and something dangerously close to affection. “You made such a mess for me.”

His thrusts stayed deep, slow, dragging every last bit of overstimulation out of you, cock still thick and heavy inside your slick, swollen cunt.

And even through your tears, even through the way your body shook, you still pressed your cheek into his hand. Still gave him everything.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “Just let me fuck it into you. Nice and slow. You earned that, didn’t you?”

You could only nod—pathetic and ruined.

He kept fucking you—slow and deep, every thrust thick with his cum, every drag of his cock pulling a soft whimper from your swollen throat.

His hand cradled your jaw, lips brushing against your cheek where the tears still lingered, and his voice dropped low—raspy and certain.

“I’m not fucking pulling out of you tonight. I can assure you that.”

⋆⁺₊✧ MASTERLIST

tag list: @iamthatonefangirl @buckytakethewheel @thatsbucknasty @buckybarneswife125

[danysdaughter]

Sweet On The Job

pairing | congressman!bucky x assistant!reader

word count | 9.9k words

summary | when newly-appointed congressman bucky barnes reluctantly hires the sweetest, most radiant assistant imaginable, he doubts your place in the cutthroat world of politics—until you prove you can run it and melt his guard all at once.

tags | slow burn, grumpy x sunshine, office romance, unspoken feelings, miscommunication, overhearing a conversation, mutual pining, angst with a happy ending, emotional hurt/comfort, bucky is bad at feelings but good at kissing, reader cries a lot, it’s fine, sensitive!reader

a/n | reader’s based on our amaya papayas personality, we love our sensitive gangsta. based on this request

taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

Bucky still couldn’t figure out how he ended up here.

Congress. Of all places. The marble halls, the high ceilings, the egos inflated enough to float over the Capitol dome. And then there was him—James Buchanan Barnes—who could barely make it through a two-minute speech without sounding like a half-defrosted android.

His suit itched. The tie choked. And don’t even get him started on the shoes.

He sat behind his too-polished desk in his too-expensive office, staring blankly at an inbox full of emails with subject lines that made his eyes twitch. Urgent: Appropriations Strategy. Reminder: Agriculture Committee Briefing. Lunch with Donor—Move to Friday?

Lunch with a donor. Christ.

He rubbed a hand over his face, resisting the urge to lay his forehead flat on the desk. This wasn't him. He was a soldier, not a politician. He gave speeches like he gave orders—short, dry, and with zero charisma.

Every time he opened his mouth in public, he could see reporters wince. His team had tried coaching him. “Smile more.” “Loosen up.” “Try not to look like you're about to gut someone with a bayonet.”

So far, the best he'd managed was a half-smirk that came off more like a nervous tick.

Bucky sighed. Deep, soul-weary sigh. He looked at the framed picture on the wall—him shaking hands with someone he was pretty sure hated him. That was politics, apparently. Pretending to enjoy small talk with people who could and would stab you in the back with a regulation-sized American flag pin.

His phone buzzed again.

Another email.

Subject: Staff Assistant Interviews – You Still Haven’t Picked Anyone

Bucky groaned. That damn assistant position. He’d pushed the interviews for three weeks now, mostly because he couldn’t think of anything worse than sitting through a dozen conversations with people who’d use phrases like “synergize the legislative workflow” without flinching.

He didn’t want someone who talked like a press release. He just wanted someone who would show up, get shit done, and not ask too many questions when he had to disappear for an afternoon to punch a wall in private.

But apparently, you couldn’t say that in a job posting.

He glanced at the stack of printed resumes on his desk. He’d skimmed a few. Too polished. Too eager. Too… not him. None of them had that quality he couldn’t quite define—something real. Something normal. Someone who wouldn’t blink if he came into the office looking like he’d fought a raccoon on the metro.

The door creaked open slightly. It was Sam. Again.

“Still haven’t picked anyone?” Sam leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

Bucky didn’t look up. “They all talk like LinkedIn threw up on a resume template.”

Sam chuckled. “Want me to just find you someone?”

“God, yes.”

And just like that, he handed off the decision. Delegated. Efficient. Which, ironically, made him feel even more like he didn’t belong here.

Bucky leaned back in his chair, exhaling like a man twice his age. He looked at the ceiling. It stared back.

Congress. Jesus.

────────────────────────

Some Days Later

Bucky didn’t look up when the door opened.

He figured it was Brenda. Maybe Sam again. Hopefully not another reporter asking for a quote he’d regret later. He was mid-email—something about committee assignments and a lunch reschedule—when he heard it.

“Hi! Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry I’m a tiny bit early—traffic was a dream, can you believe that?”

Not Brenda.

The voice was too bright, too chipper, and far too comfortable for someone stepping into a federal office for the first time.

Bucky looked up slowly, pen still in his hand, and there you were—framed in his doorway like a damn Hallmark commercial. Floral dress under a structured blazer, hair bouncing, smile like you’d just walked into brunch, not a congressional office. You carried a leather bag and a clipboard and somehow radiated the scent of confidence and cinnamon.

He blinked.

You didn’t flinch. Just walked right in like you’d been doing it your whole life.

“Congressman Barnes, right?” You extended your hand, polished nails and all. “I’m the assistant Sam recommended. So nice to meet you.”

He didn’t take your hand right away. He was still trying to process the human sunbeam in front of him. You looked like someone who hosted charity galas and had a Pinterest board for every holiday.

Eventually, he stood. Shook your hand. Warm grip. Firm. No hesitation.

“Right,” he said, voice low and flat. “Sam said you’d be coming by.”

You smiled even wider. “I brought a printed copy of my resume, just in case. I know Sam already sent it over, but you never know. Oh! And I made you a little overview—color-coded—of what your schedule might look like if we streamline some of the overlapping committee times. Brenda said Wednesdays are chaos.”

You placed the papers on his desk like you’d done this a hundred times.

Bucky glanced at the overview. It was in soft pastel shades, each block of time cleanly labeled, with footnotes. Actual footnotes.

He looked back up at you. Still smiling. Still sparkling, somehow.

“You always this organized?” he muttered.

Your laugh was soft but definite. “Only when I’m awake.”

Christ.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t really do… interviews.”

“Good,” you said, cheerful as hell. “I don’t really do bad interviews.”

He had no idea what to do with that.

“I work hard,” you went on, tone bright but grounded now. “I don’t miss deadlines. I know how to read people. I’ve handled CEOs, campaign donors, and one very angry florist. And I’m from New York, so I’m nice—but only as long as you need me to be.”

That part made him pause.

Your smile stayed sweet, but your eyes—sharp. That flicker of edge.

He exhaled. “You’re hired.”

────────────────────────

A Few Weeks Later

The thing was—Sam hadn’t exaggerated.

You were, somehow, even better than advertised.

You had shown up the next morning with a personalized planner, a labeled filing system, and two different cold brews—one for him, one “just in case he preferred oat milk.” Within three days, his inbox was tamed, his schedule was tight, and his meetings started and ended on time.

You smiled your way through logistical nightmares. You turned budget briefings into organized, annotated packets. You once managed to reschedule an entire committee meeting without pissing anyone off. That alone should’ve won you a medal.

And the worst part?

Everyone adored you.

Brenda now referred to you as her “angel girl.” The intern, Emily, had started mimicking your outfit choices. Even grumpy old Greg from Finance smiled when you passed him in the hall, and Bucky hadn’t seen Greg smile since the start of his term as Congressman.

Meanwhile, Bucky… didn’t know how to talk to you.

You were polite, always. Sweet. Occasionally too sweet—offering him snacks mid-meeting, asking if he needed a moment to breathe after intense calls. Once, you said “You’re doing amazing, by the way,” after a disastrous media interview.

He’d stared at you like you’d spoken another language.

He didn’t know what to do with that kind of warmth. He knew how to handle tension, confrontation, icy professionalism. He could navigate sharp words and sharp eyes. But compliments? Softness? Your sunny little “good morning!” every day before you sat down to absolutely decimate his workload?

It threw him off.

And you never tried to throw him off. That was what made it worse. You weren’t fake. You didn’t flirt or suck up. You were just… like this. Bouncy and competent. Bubblegum and brute force. Warmth wrapped in weaponized organization.

He wasn’t sure if it made him uncomfortable or impressed. Maybe both.

He heard you laugh in the hallway one afternoon. Loud. Joyful. Brenda was giggling too. Probably over that dumb plant someone brought in. You’d named it. Called it Marvin. Marvin the Money Tree. Bucky didn’t understand why that made everyone so happy.

He sipped his coffee. It was oat milk. He hadn’t asked for that.

You’d just noticed.

One month in, Bucky realized you might actually be magic.

You handled press requests like a PR veteran, fielded donors with the grace of a diplomat, and had somehow convinced the coffee cart guy downstairs to give the staff a “Capitol Crew” discount.

Bucky didn’t know how you did it—maybe you smiled at the guy too nicely, or maybe you just offered to reorganize his inventory out of the goodness of your glittery heart.

You never stopped smiling.

Even when the job sucked. Even when schedules collapsed, or the media spun things sideways, or the office printer jammed for the fourth time in a single day—you smiled. Not in a fake, corporate way. In a real way. Like the chaos never got to you.

It made him suspicious.

He watched you from behind his desk more often than he meant to. You always moved like you were dancing to some rhythm he couldn’t hear. Laughing with interns, giving Brenda a shoulder squeeze on a bad day, complimenting someone’s shoes before dropping a twenty-slide briefing deck into their inbox.

And every time you turned that blinding kindness on him, Bucky froze like you’d aimed a spotlight at a feral cat.

He didn’t know how to respond when you handed him color-coded notes for a hearing and said, “I highlighted your speaking points—if you want to wing it, I backed up the quotes with data so you sound casual but still super smart.”

Or when you brought him soup from that one hole-in-the-wall deli because he coughed once and you “just had a feeling.”

He grunted. He nodded. He said “Thanks,” but it always came out dry, stiff, like someone had to wring it out of him.

You didn’t seem to mind.

You never flinched. Never made it awkward. Just smiled and moved on to the next task like your kindness didn’t require a thank you. And that bugged him more than anything.

He was used to people playing politics—smiling with their teeth, angling for favor. But you? You brought him homemade banana bread on a Monday because “Mondays are brutal and I didn’t want you to suffer more than necessary.”

Who does that?

He watched you now, through the glass wall of his office. You were standing in the hallway, coaching the new comms kid on how to navigate a donor event, switching between “babe” and “sweetheart” like it was a dialect, your hands moving as fast as your mouth. You were wearing some lavender thing today. Smelled like citrus and resolve.

Bucky looked back at his laptop. He hadn’t typed in ten minutes.

He hated this.

Not you. Just this feeling.

────────────────────────

Three Months In

It started with a meeting.

A routine one—just a few junior reps and a legislative strategist who looked like he’d swallowed a thesaurus. You had prepped Bucky flawlessly. Briefing notes, talking points, key players—all in a soft yellow folder with a post-it that said, “You’ve got this :)”

He didn’t got this.

The strategist spent the whole meeting throwing jargon like darts. Bucky kept pace, mostly. You even leaned in halfway through to quietly remind him which bill number they were referencing. Still, when the room cleared, Bucky felt like he’d just walked out of a storm.

You stayed behind, re-organizing his desk without being asked. “You did really well,” you said softly. “I know this guy was wordy but you held your ground.”

Bucky nodded.

But something in his chest pulled tight.

You were too kind. Too gentle about it. It made him feel like a child being praised for tying his shoes.

He didn’t say anything then.

But it stuck.

You were good at your job—he knew that. But politics wasn’t just about competence. It was brutal. Ugly. People chewed you up and spat you out for smiling too much, for being too friendly, too soft. And you… you glowed like you didn’t know the world could be mean.

He couldn’t shake the worry. That someday soon, someone was going to say the wrong thing to you in the wrong room, and you’d come undone. Or worse—you wouldn’t. You’d just… leave. Quietly.

So a few days later, when Sam called, Bucky didn’t think twice before stepping into his office, closing the door, and letting the words out.

“She’s not cut out for this,” he said.

Right outside the door, you were balancing two coffees—his preferred dark roast and your own sugar-heavy concoction—and a muffin from the café down the street. You’d been about to knock.

You didn’t.

“She’s good at the job,” Bucky went on, his voice low but firm, “but I don’t know if this is the right setting for her. Politics isn’t about being nice, Sam. She’s too… bright. Too open. That’s not sustainable here.”

Your stomach dropped.

It was the way he said it. Like being who you were wasn’t just a mismatch—it was a liability.

Too bright. Too open. Too much.

You’d heard that before. Too sweet, too emotional, too loud, too bubbly, too soft. Always a smile, always a “thank you,” always a goddamn post-it note. And it was never enough. It never counted. People liked it until they didn’t.

You blinked hard, eyes burning suddenly. You hated how fast the tears welled—hated that he’d never even raised his voice, never said it cruelly. That somehow made it worse. He hadn’t meant to hurt you. He’d just meant it.

You stayed frozen, heart thudding.

Then Sam, through the phone, “You sure this is about her not fitting in… or you not knowing what to do with someone like her?”

You didn’t wait to hear the rest.

You set the coffee and muffin on the side table near his door, the yellow post-it stuck neatly to the lid. It said “You looked tired today. Hope this helps.”

But you didn’t knock.

And for the first time since you’d started, you walked away without smiling.

────────────────────────

It started subtly.

You didn’t stop smiling—but it didn’t reach your eyes anymore.

Bucky told himself he was imagining it at first. That maybe you were just tired, or busy, or maybe it was allergy season. But the longer he watched you—really watched you—the more certain he became that something had shifted.

You still did your job. That was never in question.

Emails answered. Calls returned. Schedules maintained like clockwork. You still handed him briefing packets with neat highlights, still walked him through the day’s chaos each morning.

But the post-its stopped.

No more “You’ve got this!” or “Don’t forget to drink water :)”

Your voice, once full of light and little jokes and endearing asides, had gone quieter. Measured. Professional. Nothing personal. You didn’t ask how his weekend was. Didn’t tease him for frowning at your color coding. You didn’t call him “bossman” anymore.

You just called him Congressman.

That one hit the hardest.

The rest of the office noticed too. Jimmy asked where your “sparkle” went. Brenda had quietly asked Bucky if you were okay. He’d just shrugged, said you were probably busy. But deep down, something pulled at him.

You hadn’t brought him coffee in nearly two weeks.

He hadn’t realized how much he noticed it until it was gone.

You still smiled at other people—still lit up when interns needed help, still made time to compliment someone’s new haircut. But with him, there was a wall now. Polite. Distant. Not cold, exactly. Just… not warm.

You didn’t linger. You didn’t laugh with him anymore. You didn’t look at him like you had before—like he was something worth rooting for.

And the worst part?

He didn’t know why.

He couldn’t remember doing anything—saying anything—that would’ve caused it. But then again, he hadn’t been paying enough attention, had he? You’d been right there, every damn day, and he’d barely looked up. Barely said more than necessary.

He didn’t realize he missed you until the version of you he knew was gone.

And now, sitting at his desk, watching you work across the office with that tight-lipped expression and that perfectly put-together posture, he felt something sharp twist in his chest.

He missed the sunshine.

And somehow, he was sure it was his fault.

────────────────────────

He should’ve canceled everything.

But he didn’t.

Bucky woke up feeling like he’d been run over by a truck, the kind that reversed and hit him twice. Fever high, head pounding, body aching like his joints had finally decided to unionize and strike.

But he had a subcommittee meeting at 10 a.m., and three calls with constituents scheduled after that, and some damn transportation proposal that needed his signature.

He could barely see straight.

He tried emailing Brenda, but it took him ten minutes to type two lines. Gave up. Called you instead.

You picked up on the second ring. “Good morning, Congressman—”

“Hey,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “I, uh… I need you to bring some files from the office. And… maybe a laptop. There’s stuff I gotta do.”

You paused. “Are you okay?”

He didn’t answer fast enough.

“Mr. Barnes?” This time your voice had real concern in it—soft but sharper, like it used to sound before he ruined everything.

“I’m fine,” he lied. “Just a cold. I just… I need the budget report and that meeting brief for the committee.”

There was a pause. Then, “Text me your address. I’m coming over.”

Before he could object, you hung up.

You showed up 40 minutes later.

He didn’t expect you to let yourself in, but you did, like you belonged there—like someone had to keep things running. You had the laptop, the folders, your phone already out and your expression focused.

You were still in your usual outfit—put-together and professional—but there was something else in your eyes when you saw him slumped on the couch, pale, sweaty, and looking every bit like a man who shouldn’t be left alone with political responsibility.

“Jesus, Mr. Barnes,” you said, setting everything down. “You look like death.”

“I told you, I’m—”

“You’re not fine,” you snapped, and for the first time in months, your voice had bite. “You’re burning up. Go. Bed. Now.”

He blinked. “You’re not my—”

“I said bed, Barnes. Don’t make me speak again.”

That shut him up.

You guided him to the bedroom with surprising gentleness, adjusted the blankets, took his temperature without flinching.

Muttered something about idiots and stubborn men as you set a glass of water on the nightstand. Then you left the door half open and walked straight into his living room like it was your war zone.

And then?

You took over.

Bucky stirred to the sound of your voice. It was steady. Calm. Businesslike. Something about the infrastructure bill and a scheduling conflict.

He blinked at the ceiling, groggy but conscious enough to realize the headache had dulled. The water glass on his nightstand was full again. The thermometer was gone. So were most of the folders.

But your voice remained.

“…no, we’re not pushing it another week. The Congressman already reviewed the amended language,” you said, sharp but not yet rude.

Bucky turned toward the open bedroom door. He could just barely see the edge of you standing in the living room, phone to your ear, one hand on your hip.

A pause.

And then—

“Okay, you know what? You don’t gotta raise your voice at me, sweetheart. That ain’t how this works.”

His eyebrows rose. That tone? That wasn’t the voice he’d grown used to over the last month.

Your next sentence came faster. Smoother. The vowels shortened. The sugar gone.

“You show up late, you miss deadlines, and now you got the audacity to talk down to me? Mm-mm. Uh-uh. Try again.”

The silence on the other end must’ve been long, because your voice dropped lower, firmer.

“You’re an extremely odd individual, and I do not wanna speak to you anymore. So here’s what you’re gonna do: fix your mistake, resubmit the form correctly, and stop wastin’ my damn time.”

There was a beat. Then you scoffed, low and dry. “Don’t get slick with me. I’m bein’ very polite right now.”

Another pause.

Then a final, clipped, “Goodbye.”

Click.

You exhaled hard. There was a rustle of papers. A muttered “weirdo” under your breath. And then the soft tap, tap, tap of you moving to the laptop again, your tone immediately shifting back into something more composed as you started your next call.

Bucky lay there, fully awake now, eyebrows furrowed.

That… wasn’t the version of you he knew.

And yet, it wasn’t jarring. It was seamless. Natural. Like your sweetness wasn’t a mask, but a choice—one you could take off the second someone disrespected you.

And he’d never heard anything so impressive in his life.

You’d gone from high-level strategy to full-on verbal takedown in under five seconds and didn’t even flinch. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t soften it.

Bucky stared at the ceiling, half in awe, half in… something else he couldn’t quite name.

Maybe fever wasn’t the only reason his chest felt tight.

────────────────────────

By the time the sun had dipped low and the apartment took on that soft, golden hue, the chaos of the day had fully subsided.

You were back to yourself—at least, the version Bucky knew. Sweet. Bubbly. Moving around his apartment like it wasn’t the least bit strange that you’d just taken over a congressman’s workload in a knit cardigan and a cloud-patterned scrunchie.

He stood in the doorway now, blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a reluctant ghost, watching you tidy up the living room while humming under your breath.

You turned before he could say anything, your face lighting up like it always did when you saw him—even now, even after the day you’d had.

“Hey, sunshine,” you said softly, like he was the one who needed reassuring. “You should be in bed.”

“I’m fine,” he muttered, throat still raw.

You gave him a look that was very not convinced but didn’t press it. Instead, you stepped forward with a little tablet and a closed folder in hand.

“I wrapped everything up,” you said, tone gentle, like you didn’t want to overwhelm him. “Sorted the subcommittee notes, handled the calls, pushed your morning meetings. Everything’s in here, just in case.”

You held it out to him with both hands, like it was fragile.

“It should all run smooth when you’re back in the office,” you added. “No big hassle, I promise.”

He took it slowly, fingers brushing yours.

Then your eyes flicked toward the kitchen. “Oh! And I made soup.”

Bucky blinked. “Soup?”

You nodded, looking proud. “Chicken. With orzo. Little bit of lemon. It’s an old recipe from my ma. Helps with stomach stuff, and it’s good for fevers.”

You paused, like maybe you were worried you’d overstepped. Your hands twitched slightly in front of you.

“I mean—you don’t have to eat it now,” you said quickly, “but I left it in the fridge. Labeled it with a little sticky so you know which one it is. Not that there’s a lot of stuff in your fridge, I just… y’know. Thought it might help.”

Your voice trailed off, but your smile stayed.

Soft. Open. So completely you.

And all Bucky could do was stand there, wrapped in his stupid blanket, and wonder how the hell you’d spent the whole day being terrifyingly competent, and still ended it with soup and a nervous little glance like you weren’t sure if he’d like it.

You hesitated at the edge of the living room, hands fidgeting with something behind your back.

Bucky noticed the shift immediately.

The glow you’d carried all day—while juggling Congress from his couch and checking his temperature without breaking stride—had dimmed. Not gone. Just… pulled inward, like you were trying to protect something small and fragile inside yourself.

You stepped forward, arms unfolding to reveal a neatly sealed envelope.

Your smile this time was softer. Smaller. Like a flickering candle. “Before I forget,” you said lightly, “I meant to give this to you earlier.”

You held it out.

He didn’t take it at first. Just stared. “What is it?”

Your lashes fluttered. You tilted your head slightly, voice still calm—almost apologetic. “It’s just my formal letter of resignation. Two weeks’ notice.”

The room went still.

Like even the hum of his ancient fridge paused to register the words.

Bucky took the envelope slowly, like it might explode in his hands. His stomach dropped, even lower than it had that morning when he first woke up sweating through his sheets.

“You’re leaving,” he said, flatly, like maybe saying it again would change the shape of it in the air. “Why?”

You hesitated, and for a second, he thought you weren’t going to say anything at all.

But then your gaze lifted—slow, reluctant—and something behind your eyes dimmed. Not anger. Not even disappointment. Just a sadness so quiet it made his chest ache.

“I heard you,” you said, voice small but even. “That day on the phone. When you were talking to Sam.”

The words sank into him with slow, merciless weight.

Shit.

He opened his mouth, panic rising. “You weren’t supposed to—”

“I know,” you cut in gently, holding up a hand. “It’s alright.”

That made it worse.

You smiled, the kind of smile that tried so hard to be kind it hurt to look at. “It’s okay,” you repeated. “I get that a lot, honestly. People sayin' I’m too soft. Too nice. Too… whatever.”

He shook his head. “That’s not—”

“I know you didn’t mean it to be cruel.” Your voice was airy, almost thoughtful. “It didn’t even sound mean. You were just being honest. And you’re right, in a way. I am sweet. I care a lot. I get excited over little things. I bring baked goods to meetings and I probably hug too much and I call people sweetheart even when they’re mean to me.”

Bucky’s throat was dry. “I didn’t—”

“But I’m not naïve,” you said, and this time there was steel under the softness. Not sharp—but unbending. “I’m not stupid. I know how this world works. I just… don’t want to become like it.”

Your eyes met his fully then, warm and steady. “I like who I am. I don’t want to lose that just to survive a place that tells me kindness is a weakness.”

He opened his mouth again—anything, something—but you beat him to it, words tumbling now with gentle finality.

“I’m a big-hearted person, Mr. Barnes. I love hard. I care hard. I will go to war for the people I believe in, and I’ll still make them soup afterward. That’s who I am.”

You gave a small shrug, and your smile this time was a little sad, a little tired. “But I know not everyone wants that. Not everyone likes their coffee sweet.”

He looked at you, mouth parted, heart twisting tighter with every breath.

You tilted your head, a soft laugh escaping. “And that’s okay. Really. I don’t need everyone to like me. I just want to work somewhere I don’t feel like I have to apologize for existing.”

Bucky tried—he really tried—to find the words to take it back. To undo it. But they stuck in his throat like gravel.

All he managed was a strangled, “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

You nodded gently, like you already knew that.

But the hurt was still there, just under the surface, quietly humming like a bruise.

────────────────────────

It’d been three days since you handed him that letter.

Three days since you smiled with that soft resignation and walked out of his apartment, leaving behind bowl of soup and a hollow ache in his chest.

And now you were in the office—laughing.

Bucky watched you through the slats of his office shutters like a goddamn surveillance drone. Brenda was telling some story that clearly wasn’t funny, but you were laughing like it was the best thing you’d heard all week. Head tilted back, hand on her shoulder, the kind of laugh that made the people around you lean in like flowers toward sunlight.

He hated how familiar that laugh felt now.

And how far away it sounded.

You’d gone back to being sweet, professional, helpful. You hadn’t missed a single beat in your work. But with him, you were still distant. Polite. You hadn’t brought him coffee. Hadn’t cracked a joke. Hadn’t touched his arm in passing the way you used to.

He was losing you.

And the worst part? It wasn’t dramatic. You weren’t bitter. You weren’t angry.

You were just… quietly leaving.

So now he sat at his desk, glaring at his screen, not reading a damn word. His mind was a storm of useless questions and even more useless ideas.

Could he offer a raise? A promotion? Make the job more creative? Incentivize something?

He rubbed his hand down his face. No, that sounded like bribery.

Maybe he could ask her to stay just until the end of the quarter. Emphasize her value. Play the logistics angle. Remind her how much smoother things have been with her here.

He leaned back in his chair. That sounded desperate.

What if—

‘Jesus,’ he thought. ‘This isn’t about keeping her.’

A beat.

Then he corrected himself instantly. ‘Keeping her as an assistant. I mean. Not— Not like—’

He groaned, scrubbing at his eyes like he could rub the feelings away.

She was just efficient. That’s all. Stable. Predictable in a way he relied on. She was good at her job and the office ran smoother with her in it and that’s why this mattered.

Not because she smelled like lemons and comfort. Not because she looked at everyone like they were worth loving. Not because he’d started measuring his mornings by whether she smiled at him.

No. No, no, no. Just work.

Strictly professional.

He glanced back out through the blinds.

You were organizing a folder stack with the intern, gently fixing the label tabs, still smiling.

Still leaving.

And Bucky felt like the office was already colder without you—even though you hadn’t gone yet.

────────────────────────

Bucky liked to think he was a decent boss.

Not fun, sure. Not particularly approachable. Maybe a little gruff. And socially awkward, definitely. But fair. Honest. He let people take their lunch breaks. He remembered birthdays when he could. He even once approved an impromptu office donut day.

So it surprised him—no, perturbed him—when he found out about your going away party… from Brenda.

Brenda, who was sixty-eight and had once said she considered EDM “an acronym for something immoral.” Brenda, who referred to clubbing as “light alcoholism with extra steps.” Brenda, who had received an invitation.

He had not.

He found out over coffee. His coffee. The one he’d fetched himself because you no longer brought it to him.

Brenda had mentioned it casually, in that unassuming way older women do when they know they’re about to light a match and walk away from a very dry haystack.

“They’re doing a little sendoff for her Friday night. At that club downtown—the neon one with the ridiculous name. Something with vowels missing.”

He’d blinked. “What sendoff?”

“The one for your assistant, dear.” Sip. “The one who’s leaving.”

The words sank in slowly. Your assistant. Leaving. Right. That was happening. Somehow he kept forgetting it was real. Or maybe refusing to process it.

Then came the kicker: “Jimmy’s organizing the whole thing. Should be fun.”

Bucky had stared. “Jimmy?”

Brenda nodded, as if it were perfectly normal that the chillest, most easygoing staffer in his entire office had turned into a party planner on your behalf. “He booked a VIP booth. Very thoughtful.”

VIP booth? Bucky didn’t even know Jimmy knew how to book things. The guy wore mismatched socks and said “vibe check” unironically.

“So… they didn’t think to tell me?”

Brenda hesitated, just for a second, which was all the answer Bucky needed.

Later, he cornered Jimmy in the hallway, trying to sound casual and not like a man deeply offended by club logistics.

Jimmy had shrugged, wide-eyed and harmless. “We just figured it wasn’t really your scene, you know?”

Bucky blinked. “It’s not Brenda’s scene either.”

Jimmy scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, Brenda knows the DJ.”

Of course she did.

Bucky didn’t say anything else. Just walked back to his office, each step echoing a little louder in his chest than it should have.

They didn’t think he’d want to come. Or maybe they didn’t think he deserved to.

And maybe they were right. Maybe he wasn’t the kind of guy you threw parties for. Maybe people just did their jobs around him and left. No post-its. No coffee. No soup.

But still… the fact that you were going to be out on a dance floor, surrounded by people who adored you, celebrating your last day—without him—hit harder than it should’ve.

Because he’d hurt you. He knew that now. And they all knew it too.

And no one invited him to say goodbye.

────────────────────────

He wasn’t even supposed to be there.

He told himself that, at least, on the way over. This wasn’t some grand gesture. He wasn’t planning a speech, wasn’t going to make a scene. He’d accepted it—you were leaving. And maybe he didn’t deserve a chance to change that.

So he’d come to do the one thing he could do.

Say goodbye.

He clutched the small, carefully wrapped box in his jacket pocket, fingers curling around the corners. It wasn’t much. But it was personal. Thoughtful. Something that reminded him of you—sweet, strange, specific.

But he remembered.

The music hit him first. The bass vibrating through the walls as soon as he stepped into the club. It was too loud, too crowded, too young. Neon lights pulsed off the walls, everything warm and blurred. He stood near the entrance, eyes scanning—feeling wildly out of place in his plain clothes and clenched jaw—until he saw you.

And then his lungs just… stopped working.

There you were.

It took one second. One.

You were standing near the booth, laughing—God, always laughing—wearing a pale blue outfit that looked like moonlight wrapped in fabric. Halter top hugging your curves, skirt tied at your hip, legs long and bare under the shifting lights. Gold hoops in your ears, bangles on your wrist, that familiar dreamy look in your eyes as you leaned into Jimmy mid-laugh.

Bucky’s feet stopped moving.

You were stunning. Effortlessly so. But it wasn’t just that. It was the freedom—the way you stood like nothing in the world could touch you here. Like you weren’t his assistant or part of a machine or tethered to other people’s expectations. You were you—unfiltered, unbothered, alive.

And he’d never seen you like this before.

Not in your pastels and blazers. Not behind your desk with your clipboard and schedule.

This version of you—this—was what he was losing.

He swallowed hard.

She’s just your assistant, he told himself. Or had been. That’s all this was. You were good at your job. That’s all.

But even he didn’t believe it anymore.

You were mid-sip of your drink when you caught sight of him, standing near the edge of the club like he was trying to melt into the wall.

Your breath caught.

And then your whole face lit up like someone had flipped a switch inside you.

“Oh my gosh, you came!”

You pushed past two people without thinking, grinning, already reaching for his arm like you couldn’t help yourself. Your bangles clinked as you tugged him gently into the glow of the booth’s lights.

“I didn’t think you were coming,” you laughed, almost breathless. “You hate places like this.”

Bucky looked at you—really looked at you—and it took him a second too long to answer.

Your eyes were sparkling, cheeks flushed, hair tousled and falling perfectly over one shoulder. You looked like the kind of girl who had the whole room on a string and didn’t even realize she was holding it.

He murmured under his breath, just low enough that it got swallowed by the music, “Maybe ‘cause I wasn’t invited.”

You tilted your head. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, shaking it off with a stiff half-shrug. “Just thought I’d… say goodbye.”

Your expression softened. Just a bit.

“Oh,” you said, the word light and airy, but touched with something else. “That’s sweet.”

Bucky nodded once. Awkward. Hands shoved in his jacket pockets like he didn’t trust them to stay still.

He should’ve left it at that.

But instead, he held out the little box he’d been carrying all night—plain black wrapping, a thin ribbon tied unevenly, like he’d done it with too much concentration and not enough skill.

You blinked, surprised. “What’s this?”

“Just a gift,” he said, not meeting your eyes. “It’s stupid.”

You took it carefully, reverently, like it might break in your hands. “Oh, you shouldn't have…”

“It’s not a bribe,” he added quickly, before you could say anything more. “I know you’re leaving. I just… thought you should have something.”

You didn’t wait.

Right there in the middle of the club, music thumping, lights flashing, you carefully tugged the ribbon free and opened the box with that bright, childlike excitement you always had when someone gave you something—even if it was small. Even if it wasn’t wrapped perfectly.

And when you saw what was inside, your breath hitched.

A delicate gold necklace. Thin, simple chain. At the center, your birthstone—tiny, gleaming, perfectly cut. Nothing flashy. Nothing loud. Just right.

You stared down at it, brows pulling together, mouth parting slightly.

And then, to Bucky’s horror, your eyes started to well.

“Wait… this is my—this is my birthstone,” you said softly, voice already wobbling. “How did you even know?”

You looked up at him with wide, glistening eyes, and Bucky’s stomach dropped.

“I—I never told you my birthday.”

He shifted awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I remembered. You mentioned it once. In passing.”

That did it.

You blinked quickly, but the tears came anyway, slipping free with no real warning. “Oh God,” you whispered, pressing your fingers to your mouth, eyes going glassy. “That’s actually… really sweet. Why would you…?”

Your voice cracked. Right in the middle of a sentence. Just folded in on itself.

And Bucky panicked.

“Hey—” he murmured, stepping closer, voice low and careful, like you were a fragile object he might accidentally break with the wrong tone. “Hey, don’t cry. Don’t—don’t do that.”

You let out a small, broken laugh, brushing at your cheeks. “Sorry, I just—this is so thoughtful. And you remembered. And now I’m crying in a club like a weirdo—”

“You’re not a weirdo,” he said quickly, awkwardly, like he was saying it on instinct and didn’t even believe he was qualified to offer emotional reassurance.

Still, he reached out—tentatively—and touched your elbow. Just barely. Like he was scared of overstepping.

You were sniffling now, trying to dab at your eyes with the corner of a cocktail napkin that immediately disintegrated. “I’m just—God, I’m such a mess—”

“You’re not,” he muttered, more firmly this time. “It’s just… a lot. I get it.”

You nodded, wiping at your nose with the back of your hand in a way that made his heart twist in his chest.

“I didn’t mean to make you cry,” he added, a little helplessly. “I was just… trying to say goodbye.”

That last word came out rougher than he meant it to.

Bucky didn’t know what to do with the way your face crumpled again.

The tears came back—hot and fast—and though you were trying to smile through it, you clearly weren’t managing. You swiped at your cheeks with both hands now, uselessly, still holding the jewelry box in one.

He hesitated. Then stepped in a little closer, hand hovering awkwardly near your back.

“Hey,” he said gently, “come on. Let’s get some air.”

You nodded, a hiccuped little sound catching in your throat, and let him guide you with a light touch on your back. You were too busy trying not to sniff too loudly, muttering something about God, I probably look insane right now, as he led you carefully past the crowd and toward the door.

The outside air hit cool and sharp. The street was quiet in comparison—just the low hum of traffic and the faint pulse of music through the walls behind you.

You sniffled again, eyes still glassy as you blinked up at him, half apologetic. “Ugh, my makeup is definitely ruined,” you mumbled. “I knew I shouldn’t have worn this mascara. But it was waterproof! It was supposed to be—why do they even say that if it’s a lie?”

Bucky gave a short breath—almost a laugh, almost not. He looked at you, really looked.

Your cheeks were a little streaked, sure. Lip gloss a bit smudged. But your eyes were shining. And that necklace—the one he’d spent way too long choosing—sat against your skin like it had always belonged there.

“You look fine,” he said, voice quiet but certain. “You look like… you.”

You smiled weakly. “That bad, huh?”

He shook his head, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “No. That good.”

You looked down at your heels, a soft little laugh escaping from behind your hand.

Then, a little quieter: “You really didn’t have to come, you know.”

“I know,” he murmured. “But I wanted to.”

You sniffled once more and tilted your head back, resting it gently against the brick wall behind you. The chill of it made your skin rise in little goosebumps, but you didn’t mind. It helped ground you.

Bucky stood a step in front of you, hands in his pockets, close but not quite touching. He looked like he was trying to memorize the shape of you in this light—the heated cheeks, the still-damp lashes, the faint shimmer of highlighter on your collarbone.

You smiled at him, a little shy now, still damp-eyed but back to your usual, airy self. The kind of smile that could make someone forget everything they were angry about.

“You’re gonna miss me, huh?”

You meant it like a joke. Playful. Light.

But he didn’t laugh.

He looked at you like the weight of that sentence had knocked the wind out of him.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, I am.”

That stopped you. Just for a second. Like you hadn’t expected honesty from him—not that much, not here.

The smile on your lips faltered.

He stepped a little closer. Just a half-step. Just enough to feel his presence around you. He wasn’t touching you, but he didn’t need to. You could feel it anyway. Could feel him—his stillness, his warmth, his quiet restraint.

And then he said it.

“Are you sure,” he asked, voice barely audible, “there’s nothing I can say to change your mind?”

Your breath caught in your throat.

The question hung in the air between you. Not loud. Not desperate. Just there.

You looked up at him, blinking too fast again. “Bucky…”

But you didn’t finish the sentence.

Because it was already happening again—your eyes glassing over, that familiar sting building behind your nose.

You sucked in a shaky breath, the cool air burning your lungs. You looked away from him, blinking rapidly, willing the tears not to spill—but it was already too late. Again.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice cracking. “God, I’m sorry, I don't wanna cry again—this is so embarrassing.”

Bucky said nothing.

Just stood there in front of you, still as stone. But his eyes… they were softer than you’d ever seen them. And it hurt.

“I would stay,” you choked, voice trembling with the weight of the truth you’d kept tucked away for weeks. “I want to stay. Of course I want to stay.”

You were crying now, tears falling hot down your cheeks as your chest tightened. “But it wouldn’t work. It can’t. It’s unethical now. It’s inappropriate. Because I—”

Your throat clenched, but you pushed through.

“—because I have this stupid crush on you, okay?”

You didn’t dare look at him.

“I have this dumb, awful, unprofessional, completely humiliating crush on my boss. I think about you way too much, and it makes it hard to do my job. I bring you coffee I know you like and highlight your notes so you won’t panic during speeches and I try to make you smile because when you do it’s like—it’s like the world gets quiet for a second.”

Your hands fluttered uselessly as you spoke, as if your body could catch your words and stuff them back in your mouth.

“And I know it’s one-sided, okay? I’m not stupid. I know you don’t feel that way, but I—”

He kissed you.

Just like that. No warning.

A sudden, quiet press of lips that silenced your breath, your words, your panic.

His hands didn’t even touch you. Not yet. He just leaned in and kissed you—firm, sure, warm—like it was the only way he knew to make it all stop.

You froze, heart crashing into your ribs, eyes wide for just a moment.

And then you melted.

Mouth softening into his, breath catching in your throat. Tears still clinging to your lashes, your hand clutching the front of his jacket like it was the only solid thing left in the world.

He pulled back slowly—barely an inch—his forehead resting lightly against yours.

“You’re wrong,” he whispered, voice rough. “It’s not one-sided.”

Your lips parted to speak—to say something, anything, maybe to ask if this was real—but you didn’t get the chance.

Bucky kissed you again.

This time deeper, firmer, more certain. His hand found the side of your jaw, fingers brushing just behind your ear, grounding you in the moment like he couldn’t stand to be any farther away. Your back pressed gently against the wall behind you, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat.

It wasn’t careful now.

It was warm and urgent and real, and it made your head spin, your knees wobble. You let out a tiny noise against his mouth, your fingers curling into the front of his jacket again, clinging like you couldn’t bear to stop.

When he pulled back—slowly, reluctantly—his breath mingled with yours, foreheads still close.

“You taste like strawberries,” he murmured, lips brushing against yours as he spoke.

Your heart stuttered. Your brain, still floating somewhere behind your eyes, couldn’t string thoughts together fast enough.

You blinked up at him, eyes hazy, lips still parted. Then, barely above a whisper, you murmured against his mouth,

“I think it’s ‘cause of my strawberry daiquiri.”

That made him smile.

Small, crooked, and stupidly tender.

And for the first time in what felt like weeks, you smiled too—real and a little dazed, like you couldn’t believe this was happening.

Bucky looked like he was about to say something else.

His mouth opened, barely.

And you didn’t let him.

You moved fast—tipping forward and throwing your arms around his neck before he could even breathe, your body colliding into his with enough force to make him stumble half a step back. His hands shot out instinctively, catching you by the waist, holding you steady.

Then you kissed him again.

Harder this time. Messier. Mouth opening against his, tongue slipping past his lips like it had been building in you for months.

He grunted softly into the kiss, grip tightening at your sides like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening—but wasn’t about to let go, either.

You pressed into him, fingers curling into the back of his neck, pulling him closer like it wasn’t close enough. His hand slid up your spine, the other anchoring at your hip, both of you half-pinned against the brick wall and completely lost in the feel of each other.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet.

It was heat and tension and all the things you’d both been swallowing back for too long.

Your mouth moved against his like you’d been waiting for this exact angle, this exact pressure. He kissed you back with equal weight, tongue meeting yours, breath shallow, one of his hands fisting lightly in the fabric at your lower back like he needed something to hold onto.

You pulled back for half a second—just enough to breathe—then dragged him right back in, catching his lower lip between yours before deepening it again, another sweep of your tongue making him tighten his hold on you.

When you finally pulled back, just enough to catch your breath, your foreheads were still touching, your fingers still curled at the nape of his neck. His hands were warm against your waist, thumbs absently brushing your sides like he didn’t want to stop touching you.

Your lips hovered against his—still wet, swollen, parted.

“My heart is going tachycardic right now,” you mumbled, voice breathy and half-delirious.

Bucky blinked, a slow exhale brushing over your cheek as he gave a short, low laugh. It was half a huff, half a genuine what are you even saying, but there was nothing mocking in it.

He had no idea what that meant. Not really.

But still, without missing a beat, he murmured against your lips, “Yeah. Me too.”

Then he kissed you again.

Soft this time. Lingering. Then again, just below your mouth. And again, near the corner. Like he couldn’t decide which part of you he wanted to taste more.

Your breath hitched, arms tightening briefly around his neck as his mouth found yours again—more lazy now, indulgent, like you had all the time in the world to learn each other one kiss at a time.

You smiled into it. Couldn’t help it.

And he didn’t stop kissing you.

Didn’t want to.

────────────────────────

Six Months Later

Bucky still couldn’t figure out how he ended up here.

The Watchtower.

New York.

Leader—unofficially—of the most emotionally unstable group of enhanced individuals the government could dig up. He didn’t want the job. Didn’t ask for it. But somehow, it was always his name they called when something needed handling.

He leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, eyes heavy from a sleepless night. Not that anyone here noticed. Ava phased through walls at 3 a.m., Walker trained like rage was cardio, and Yelena had made it her personal mission to ignore authority unless she gave it to herself.

He sighed, long and low, ready to go back to pretending he didn’t exist.

Then his phone buzzed in his pocket.

He pulled it out instinctively, screen lighting up.

Finally—cleared my schedule. I’m coming to New York this weekend. Hope you’re ready for excessive cuddling and making out and me refusing to let go of you for like 48 hours. ❤️

Bucky’s lips pulled into the faintest smile as he read your text, thumb tapping the screen just once in response.

Can’t wait.

And of course, that’s when Yelena walked in.

She stopped mid-stride, immediately squinting at him like she’d spotted a security breach.

“What the hell is that?”

Bucky didn’t look up. “What?”

“That thing on your face.” She tilted her head, arms crossed. “Are you… smiling?”

He pocketed the phone quickly. “It’s nothing.”

“No, no, no.” She was already circling him like a predator. “You look—God, what’s the word—pleasant. That’s not your baseline.”

He sighed, already regretting not hiding in the gym.

“Who texted you?”

“None of your business,” he muttered.

Yelena didn’t even pretend to buy it. She crossed her arms, watching him like he was a broken vending machine she intended to fix with violence.

“You smiled. I’ve never seen you smile. Not like that. It was very suspicious.”

Bucky took a slow sip of coffee. “Wasn’t smiling.”

“Your face moved, Bucky,” she said flatly. “It was unsettling.”

He turned away, walked over to the fridge like it held answers.

Yelena followed.

“Was it a dog video?” she asked. “No. You’re not soft enough for dogs. A meme? A mission update with someone dying? No—wait. It was a person. You smiled like someone flirted with you.”

He didn’t answer.

“Is it serious? Is it secret? Is it dangerous?“ Yelena asked, suddenly in front of him, leaning slightly into his space, “I will find out. I am very good at finding things. And people.”

Bucky just sighed, long and tired, and walked out of the kitchen without a word.

Yelena stared after him for half a beat before turning sharply and locking eyes on the next available target.

Walker.

He’d just wandered in, hoodie half-zipped, chewing on a protein bar like he hadn’t had a thought in days.

“You,” Yelena said, pointing at him. “You’ve known him longest. Does Bucky have a girlfriend?”

Walker blinked. “What?”

“A girlfriend,” she repeated, slower. “A woman. He dates her. Romantic?”

He squinted slightly. “Bucky? Uh… I mean… I dunno.”

“You don’t know?”

He shrugged, genuinely baffled. “I mean, maybe? He’s quiet. One time he left early and said he had ‘plans.’ That could mean anything though. Like… groceries. Or laundry.”

Yelena stared at him, unblinking. “You are completely useless.”

Walker nodded, still chewing. “That’s fair.”

────────────────────────

Bucky had just settled onto the couch, bowl of something vaguely edible in hand, eyes on the muted television where an old war documentary flickered across the screen. It wasn’t exactly entertainment—it was just quiet.

He barely got through three bites before he felt it.

The shift in the air.

Then the voices.

Yelena entered first, of course—arms crossed, wearing the face of someone who’d appointed herself lead investigator in a murder case that didn’t exist.

She was followed by Bob, Alexei, Ava, and Walker, who trailed in like a herd of very uncoordinated cats.

Bucky didn’t even look at them. “No.”

“We haven’t said anything yet,” Bob offered, smiling too nicely.

“Still no.”

Yelena dropped onto the armrest beside him, eyes sharp. “We’ve been talking.”

Bucky stared straight ahead. “Tragic.”

“And we’ve decided,” she continued, ignoring him completely, “that we don’t know anything about your personal life.”

“That’s because it’s personal,” he said dryly.

Alexei huffed, already pacing. “This is concerning. You are team leader. We need to know if you are emotionally stable.”

“I’m not. None of us are.”

Walker plopped into a chair. “He did smile the other day. That was weird.”

“That’s what started all this,” Yelena snapped. “He smiled. At a text. And now he won’t tell us who sent it.”

Bucky turned up the volume on the TV. Barely.

Ava appeared on the other side of the couch, silent as usual, but she arched a brow that said she was equally invested.

Bob, cheerful as ever, leaned forward with a grin. “We’re just saying… if there’s a special someone, you can tell us. We’re fun. We’re emotionally safe.”

“You’re emotionally nosy,” Bucky muttered.

“We are team,” Alexei boomed. “And you—our glorious yet emotionally constipated leader—should share with group!”

Yelena leaned in closer, narrowing her eyes. “Is it serious? Like, does she know you have zero social skills? Does she like that? Is she in therapy?”

Walker nodded. “Is she hot?”

Everyone looked at him.

“What?” he said. “It’s a valid question.”

Bucky's phone buzzed in his pocket.

He didn’t check it right away—not with five pairs of eyes watching him like he was the last episode of a series they weren’t supposed to binge but did anyway.

But then he did glance. Just one look at the screen.

And something shifted in his posture. Barely.

The corners of his mouth twitched. Not a smile, not quite—but something loosened in his shoulders. He stood up, sliding the phone back into his pocket.

“I’ve gotta go,” he said simply.

“Go where?” Yelena asked instantly, sliding off the couch and following with military-grade suspicion. “Where is Winter Soldier going all dressed up in… black?”

“I’m always dressed in black.“

But it didn’t matter.

They were already following him.

Bob was at his side with his usual skip in his step, Walker tagging along behind like a golden retriever who wasn’t sure what game they were playing. Alexei caught up quickly, talking to himself about trust and emotional openness. Ava materialized near the elevator, silent but present. And Yelena, of course, was right on Bucky’s heels.

“You’re deflecting,” she said as the elevator doors closed around them. “I can smell secrets. And this smells like a woman.”

Bucky didn’t respond. Not a word.

Just faced the elevator door, arms folded, jaw tight, clearly regretting every life choice that led him here.

“Where exactly are you going?” she pressed, arms crossed. “Is she here? Is she real?”

“You’ll see,” Bucky said flatly, not bothering to face them.

The elevator doors opened on the ground floor, and they all spilled into the main lobby of the Watchtower, a wide, sleek expanse of glass and metal and polished silence.

Then a sound cut through the air like a missile.

A high, joyful squeal.

“Bucky baby!”

Everything stopped.

The team froze.

Yelena’s face scrunched in real time. “Bucky baby?”

Before anyone could process that phrase, there was movement.

A blur of color streaked across the marble lobby. Heels clicking, earrings swinging, hair bouncing—you, in full tilt.

And without hesitation, you launched yourself straight at him.

Bucky barely had time to catch you, but he did—one arm wrapping around your waist, the other under your thighs as you jumped up and clung to him like gravity didn’t apply.

And then, right there in front of everyone, your lips were on his.

Not shy. Not sweet.

Mouth open, tongue in, both hands in his hair as you kissed him like you’d been holding your breath for hours and he was the only oxygen you wanted. You tilted his head, deepened it, bit his bottom lip and everything. It was messy and loud and had absolutely zero awareness of space or audience.

Bucky just held you there—like he’d been waiting for this all day. One hand squeezing your hip, the other steady under your thigh, mouth moving against yours like he couldn’t get enough.

Silence behind you.

Long.

Awkward.

Unblinking.

Walker looked physically stunned, eyes wide, lips parted like he couldn’t figure out what dimension he’d fallen into.

Bob had both hands over his eyes. “I feel like I’m watching something x-rated.”

Alexei, meanwhile, was grinning ear to ear. “Ah, love! Powerful! Raw! Very virile. I respect it.“

Ava stood slightly to the side, arms crossed, expression twisted into something between a wince and a grimace. “This is disgusting.”

Yelena just raised one eyebrow. “What the fuck?”

The kiss finally slowed—just a little. You pulled back to catch your breath, your forehead pressing against Bucky’s as you grinned, lips swollen, eyes dancing.

“Hi,” you whispered.

He huffed out a breath, still catching up. “Hi.”

Then, finally, he turned—still holding you, still slightly dazed—and glanced over at the very silent, very stunned lineup of teammates.

No one said anything.

You blinked, just now noticing the five-person audience.

“Oh,” you said cheerfully, breath still short. “Hi.”

Silence.

The kind that settles like static. Thick, charged, slightly horrified.

The team’s eyes slowly, almost comically, shifted from you to Bucky.

All at once.

Yelena stepped forward half a pace, pointing without subtlety. “This is your girlfriend?”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. He didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

You were still curled in his arms like you lived there, bright smile lighting up your entire face, makeup slightly smudged from the kissing, lipstick faded along Bucky’s mouth.

You held up your left hand like it was the most casual thing in the world.

Diamond. Simple, perfect, unmistakable.

“Fiancée, actually.”

Bucky Barnes Taglist:

@xamapolax @shereadzzz @princeescalus @onlyheretowastetime @Madlyinlovewithmattmurdockk @holycastoroli @s-sh-ne @Finnickodairslut @macbaetwo @xoxoloverb @ashpeace888 @bethjs-2005 @theewiselionessss @bythecloset @rougettq @novaslov @LuminousVenomVagrant @sgtjbbhasmyheart @avivarougestan @shoutingcardinal @shellsbae00 @sired4urmama @aoi-targaryen @winchestert101 @n3ptoonz @jeongiegram @fckmebarnes @excusememrbarnes @thealloveru2 @avgdestitute @ellierosed18 @buckmybarnes @lilac13 @fayeatheart @ozwriterchick @espressopatronum454 @slutforsr @c-grace56 @Tafuller @mencantaleer @Leathynn @solana-jpeg @snake-in-a-flower-crown @honeyhera29 @barnesonly @theoraekenslover @ogoc-19 @person-005 @beemovie123

those who couldn't be tagged are in bold :(

[mjwatson]

bucky has a disability??

he doesn’t have an arm.

[barnesonly]

Miss Rabbit ˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

congressman!bucky barnes x reader

summary: Congressman Barnes always finds the little bunny you hide in his suit. This time, he finds it mid-meeting, right before a big vote. When he calls you to his office that night, you know you’re in trouble… 🐰💼💋

words: 3692

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. fluff (kinda) to smut, established relationship, curse words, dirty talk, praise kink, spanking, fingering, oral (f receiving), PiV, unprotected sex, rough sex, teasing, edging, semi-public sex (office sex), breeding, overstimulation, petname (bunny), fully consensual by both parties although not explicitly stated.

Every morning before Congressman James Buchanan Barnes stepped into Capitol Hill, he carried a tiny secret stitched into the folds of his carefully polished world: you. Specifically, the little bunny you’d hide somewhere on him before he left.

Sometimes it was a pin tucked into his suit jacket. Other times, a sticker placed just-so in the corner of his wallet where he’d find it mid-meeting. Once, you’d clipped a stuffed keychain to the side of his briefcase, and he hadn’t noticed until the middle of a veteran affairs hearing. He’d given you a look when he got home, but the bunny was still dangling there the next morning.

He always grumbled about it, “Bunny again, doll?” “You’re trying to get me mocked in the ethics committee, aren’t you?” but he never once took them off. Not really.

Because he liked the reminder. Of you. Of home. Of the softness he wasn’t supposed to show.

And you? You liked knowing that behind every stern press release, every steely-eyed soundbite, stood your man with a tiny bunny tucked into his suit. Your personal rebellion against his polished public life. A quiet little claim on him the world couldn’t touch.

This time, it was a tiny bunny pin — soft beige felt, little floppy ears, stitched eyes. You’d snuck it into the inside pocket of his navy jacket while he was distracted on the phone that morning, already half-listening to a briefing about a defense budget proposal.

He didn’t notice.

Not when he kissed your temple on his way out.

Not when he walked past security.

Not even during the first two meetings.

It wasn’t until he reached into his pocket to grab a pen — mid-sentence, mid-argument, in a conference room packed with sharp suits and sharper words — that his fingers grazed it. The soft brush of felt ears. Familiar. Unmistakable.

He froze for half a second.

Then slowly pulled it out, holding the pin between his fingers like it might explode.

A bunny. Another one.

Someone across the table blinked. Another tried not to smile. Bucky cleared his throat, calmly placed the pin back into his pocket, and continued as if nothing happened but the tips of his ears flushed red.

Embarrassed? Maybe. But under that? A tiny, dangerous smirk.

Later, tucked away in the quiet corner of his office between stacked folders and closed blinds, he pulled out his phone.

Bucky | 4:36 PM

Come to my office after I’m done with my meetings. We have to talk

No emoji. No bunny mention. Classic serious boyfriend tone but you knew that tone. That wasn’t anger. That was danger.

Your phone buzzed again.

Bucky | 4:37 PM

Wear a dress. The one I like.

You didn’t knock.

You never did, not when he texted you like that. You just walked in, heels soft against the polished floors of Congressman Barnes’ private office. The lights were low. The building mostly empty. Evening sun poured through the blinds in long golden stripes.

He was at his desk, still in his full suit. Tie slightly loosened. Jacket still buttoned. The bunny — your bunny — barely visible in the fold of his pocket.

His eyes dragged over you the second the door clicked shut.

And God, you’d worn it — the dress he loved. Deep purple, thin straps, silk clinging to your curves like it was made to be peeled off. No bra. He could tell. And you’d pulled your hair back just the way he liked it, too, like a gift waiting to be unwrapped.

“You wore it,” he said quietly, pushing back from his chair.

You didn’t say anything, just smiled.

He stood. Slowly. Letting the silence stretch between you as he walked around the desk. His eyes didn’t leave yours, but you could feel the heat rising in his stare.

“I found the bunny,” he murmured, stopping in front of you. His hand rose, two fingers grazing the curve of your hip. “Inside my jacket. In a meeting. Surrounded by press and three senators who already hate me.”

You batted your lashes. “Did they think it was cute?”

“Think it’s cute to be disrespected in front of my colleagues?” His voice darkened, just enough to make your thighs press together. “Think it’s funny to act like my good girl and then pull stunts like that, bunny?”

Your breath caught. Your belly tightened.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “Maybe I haven’t been clear enough with you.”

You whispered, “Then maybe you should teach me.”

Oh, he sure will.

Suddenly you were spun around, pressed face-first against the cool surface of his desk. His hand came down hard on your ass — once, twice, then rubbed the sting away with a low groan.

“You wanna act like a brat?” he growled, fingers slipping beneath your dress, hiking it up your thighs. “I’ll treat you like one.”

You moaned as his hand slid under your panties, knuckles grazing where you were already soaked for him. “So wet and you haven’t even said sorry yet.”

“I’m not sorry,” you breathed, hips rocking back.

Another slap. Harder.

“Then you’re gonna take everything I give you.” His voice was dangerous now—commanding, low, rough with arousal.

He dropped to his knees behind you like a man starved. Tore your panties down. His tongue was on you in seconds, hot and eager, licking long and deep until your knees nearly gave out. He loved eating you from behind, loved the sounds you made when your hands scrambled for purchase on his desk.

“God, you taste like fucking heaven,” he groaned into your folds, arms locked around your thighs to hold you open.

His tongue was relentless, flicking over your clit in steady strokes, then dipping inside you with low, hungry moans that vibrated straight through your core. You gasped, back arching, thighs trembling as he devoured you like a man with something to prove.

Like he wasn’t just your boyfriend. He was both your punishment and your reward.

“Bucky—” you choked out, your voice cracking when he flattened his tongue against you and dragged it up with aching slowness. “Oh my God, don’t stop—”

He didn’t. He couldn’t. His hands tightened on your thighs, pulling you back against his mouth with a low growl.

“You think you can get away with teasing me like that?” he muttered against you, voice dark and slick with heat. “Think you can put that little bunny in my pocket and walk away?”

You whimpered as his tongue circled your clit again—slow, deliberate, devastating. His nose brushed right where you needed him, and he knew it, because he did it again. And again.

“Answer me, bunny.”

Your knees buckled. “I—n-no, I was just—oh my God—”

He chuckled against you, lips slick. “Not so brave now, huh?”

And then he sucked.

Hard. Right on your clit.

Your whole body shuddered, mouth open in a silent cry as your orgasm slammed through you, blinding and desperate. Your hands clutched the desk for dear life, back arching as he held you down, tongue never stopping, dragging every last wave out of you until you were trembling and panting and utterly ruined.

Only then did he pull back. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he stood slowly — towering behind you, one hand sliding up your spine.

He stood up, chest heaving. You turned just in time to see him unbuckle his belt, undo his slacks just enough to pull his cock free. Hard. Thick. Already leaking at the tip with precum.

“Bend over the desk. Hands flat. Don’t move.”

You obeyed instantly. The desk was cool under your palms, your breath fogging the polished wood. Behind you, you heard the rustle of fabric, the soft clink of his belt sliding loose, the quiet growl of a man holding himself back.

And then his hand was on you again, palm sliding up the back of your thigh, over your ass, thumb hooking beneath the band of your ruined panties.

“You really think I’m gonna fuck you without making sure this little pussy’s ready for me?” he murmured, low and dark in your ear.

You shivered, whimpering as he dragged the already ripped panties down your legs and tossed it aside. The air hit you sharp and cool, and then his fingers were parting you — spreading your slick folds with reverent care.

“Jesus,” he groaned behind you. “So fucking wet. You want it that bad, huh? Got off on teasing me?”

You whimpered, rocking back toward his touch.

“I asked you a question.”

“Yes,” you breathed. “I wanted you to get mad.”

“Oh, bunny…” he chuckled, fingers pressing gently at your entrance. “You’re gonna regret that.”

He slipped one finger inside — slow and steady, knuckle-deep. You gasped, walls clenching around the thick digit. Then two. He didn’t rush, didn’t fuck you with them yet. Just held them inside, spreading them a little. Letting you feel him. Letting you want more.

“You feel that?” he whispered. “How tight you still are? I could split you open right now and it still wouldn’t be enough.”

He curled them just slightly, finding that soft, tender spot inside you. Your mouth dropped open with a choked sound as he pressed into it.

“Ohhh—f-fuck—Bucky—”

“Yeah,” he growled, thrusting his fingers deeper now, slow but firm, like he wanted to feel every squeeze of your cunt around him. “That’s it. Let me stretch you, baby. Gotta make room for me.”

You were panting now, hands gripping the desk, legs quivering with every push of his fingers. He scissored them just a little, fucking you slow and deliberate, wet sounds filling the space between your moans.

“You’re perfect like this,” he muttered, mouth brushing your shoulder. “Bent over my desk. Dripping for me. So fucking good for me.”

One of his hands slid around your hip, pressing on your lower belly, holding you steady as his fingers picked up speed — thrusting now, curling with purpose, until your knees were buckling and your eyes were rolling back.

“Please,” you gasped. “Please, Bucky—need it—”

“Need what, baby?”

“You—inside me—please, I’m ready—”

He pulled his fingers out with a wet pop, and you nearly sobbed at the loss.

“Oh, you’re ready all right, I get it…” he said, dragging his cock through your slick folds teasingly. “So ready I could’ve walked in here, bent you over and fuck you hard without a word.”

You whimpered, looking back over your shoulder.

He caught your eyes. Smirked.

“But where’s the fun in that, Miss Rabbit?”

With one hand gripping your hip, the other steadying himself against the desk, he pressed the thick head of his cock to your entrance and he slid into you slow, letting you feel every inch as he filled you up.

You moaned — loud, louder than you meant to —but the sound was barely out before his palm was over your mouth, hot and firm.

“Shhh,” he rasped against your ear, voice barely held together. “You want the whole building hearing how desperate you are for me?”

You whimpered against his hand, walls fluttering around his cock as he bottomed out—so deep you felt him in your belly. His hips were flush against yours, and still, somehow, it felt like he was buried too far.

“Fuck,” he groaned, eyes fluttering shut as he held himself inside you. “You feel that? Feel how tight you are around me?”

He gave a slow, punishing thrust, just once. Just enough to make you feel it.

“That’s it, baby,” he growled. “Take it.”

You moaned again, body arching. He fucked into you again — deep and steady, rhythm slow and full, each thrust leaving you more breathless than the last.

“Take it like my good girl.”

Your body jerked at those words. He felt the way you clenched around him — tight and greedy — and he grunted low in your ear.

“Ohh, you love that, huh?” he whispered, hand slipping from your mouth to your throat. Not squeezing — just holding. Claiming. “Love when I fuck you like this?”

You nodded — barely. Couldn’t do anything else with the way he was ruining you. Every inch of him dragged against your walls, pushing so deep it felt like he was fucking the air from your lungs.

The desk creaked beneath you, hips slamming into yours again and again until all you could hear was the slap of skin, his breath in your ear, and the filthy wet sounds of your cunt taking every inch he gave.

His grip tightened. His thrusts got rougher.

And his voice dropped lower.

“You know what happens to brats who leave bunnies in my pocket?”

You tried to answer. Failed.

He chuckled darkly.

“They get stuffed full until they can’t walk straight.”

His rhythm picked up — deep and punishing — and your moans turned to gasps. Desk creaking beneath you, his belt jingling faintly with every thrust, the bunny still tucked neatly in his pocket while he fucked you like he’d lost all political control.

You were close, so close. Every thrust hit deep, dragging moans from your throat as his hand curled tighter around your throat, your body trembling beneath him.

“Bucky—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“Uh uh,” he growled. “Not like this.”

You barely had time to whine before he pulled out completely, your cunt clenching desperately around nothing.

“No—!” you gasped, writhing, reaching back for him.

But he was already moving — rough hands on your hips, flipping you onto your back like you weighed nothing. Your hair fanned out against the desk, chest heaving, dress bunched around your waist.

He didn’t give you time to think.

He stepped between your spread thighs, dragged you to the edge by the backs of your knees, and stared down at you with that look — like he was savoring the sight of you wrecked and needy, your pussy dripping for him, your lips parted in disbelief.

“Look at you,” he murmured, stroking his cock slowly with one hand. “Such a pretty mess. Thought you were being cute, huh?”

You whined, trying to rock your hips toward him.

“Uh uh,” he scolded, catching your throat in his hand again — gentle, but firm enough to still you. “You don’t come until I say. You understand me?”

You nodded, breath catching as his eyes dropped to where you were soaked and waiting.

“I already told you — You wanna be a brat?” he whispered, leaning in close, eyes locked on yours. “Then I’ll treat you like one.”

And then — just to be cruel — he dragged the head of his cock through your slick folds again… and still didn’t push in.

You sobbed.

“Bucky—please—I was so close—”

“I know you were,” he smirked. “Felt this pretty pussy squeezing the hell outta me. But maybe now you’ll think twice before sneaking bunnies into my damn suit.”

His cockhead nudged your entrance again — hot, hard, right there.

You arched toward him, desperate.

“Please,” you gasped, “I’ll be good, I swear—”

“Oh, bunny,” he murmured, finally letting his tip press just barely inside.

“Now beg.”

“Please,” you whispered, then louder, needy. “Please, Bucky, I need it—need you inside me, I’ll be good, I swear, I’ll be so good—”

He smirked, stroking himself over your slick folds, cock twitching in his fist.

“You’ll be good, huh?”

“Yes, yes—Bucky, please, I—fuck, I need you—”

His smirk faded into something darker. He gripped your thighs, shoved them up and apart, exposing you completely. His tip pressed to your entrance.

“Then take it,” he growled.

And he slammed into you — Hard. Deep.

You cried out, back arching off the desk as he bottomed out in one brutal thrust. No teasing. No holding back. Just his cock stretching you open and filling you to the brim.

“Oh my—fuck—”

“That what you needed, bunny?” he gritted, already moving, hips pistoning into you with raw, desperate power. “That what you were begging for?”

All you could do was moan — loud, shameless.

His hand slid down to your belly, pressing firmly as his thrusts pounded against it.

“Feel me right here,” he hissed. “So deep you can’t even think straight.”

You were gone — wrecked, toes curling as his cock hit every perfect spot, hips slamming against your ass in punishing rhythm. The desk creaked with every thrust, your body jolting with each one.

“That’s it, baby. Take it… Such a good girl.”

You gasped at the praise — shattered from it. He knew it. Knew what those words did to you. And he gave them right when you were unraveling.

“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned, eyes locked on yours. “Pretty little bunny, soaking my cock, begging for it like you’re mine.”

“I am,” you cried, voice breaking. “Yours, Bucky—always—”

That did it.

He grunted — feral — and drove into you even harder, like he was trying to fuck your soul into the damn desk. Your thighs trembled. Orgasm built fast, high, dangerous.

“I’m—I’m gonna—”

“Come for me,” he growled, bending over you, hand sliding back to your throat. “Be my good girl and fucking come for me.”

And you did.

It hit you hard — a sobbing, shaking, back-arching mess of a climax as he kept fucking you through it. You clenched around him so tight he growled, low and filthy, before burying himself to the hilt with a broken groan.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck—” he gasped, voice cracking as he came — cock twitching, filling you up in thick, hot spurts until you felt it drip out around him.

He didn’t move for a long moment. Just stayed inside, breathing hard, one hand still cupping your throat gently, the other gripping your thigh like he’d fall if he let go.

His cum spilled from between your thighs. He watched it with a proud, dangerous glint.

Then he looked up at you and smiled lazily. He didn’t pull out. Not right away.

Instead, he stayed where he was — buried deep, body pressed over yours, chest rising and falling. His hand stroked gently down your spine, grounding you. You were trembling beneath him, legs limp, breath stuttering.

“You okay, bunny?” he murmured, voice low and warm. “Talk to me.”

You nodded slowly. “Y-Yeah. Just sensitive.”

He kissed your shoulder. “Too much?”

A pause. And then — quietly — you whispered:

“No… not if it’s with you.”

That pulled a low groan from his throat. “Fuck. You know what that does to me, don’t you?”

You smiled, weak and bliss-drunk, still catching your breath.

He shifted, pulling your hips back just slightly — and you gasped when his cock dragged inside you, every inch too much and still perfect.

“God, you’re still so tight,” he breathed, voice reverent. “You wanna give me one more, sweetheart? Let me take care of you?”

You hesitated — just a beat. Then nodded again. “Yeah. Want you. Want more.”

His hand slid beneath your body, palm splayed over your lower belly as he began to move — slow, careful thrusts, deep and steady, every one making you moan helplessly into the crook of your arm.

He watched your face, your lashes fluttering, lips parted in shaky little gasps.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he whispered, kissing the side of your neck. “Taking me so sweet. So perfect.”

You whimpered. “So full…”

“You love it, don’t you?” he murmured. “Being full of me like this? With my cum still inside you?”

“Mhm…” you breathed.

“That’s right.” Another thrust, deeper. “You’re my good girl. My beautiful bunny.”

Your body jolted when he hit that spot again — over and over, his rhythm never faltering, not even when your thighs trembled and your whimpers turned to sobs.

“I can’t—I’m close—”

“Give it to me,” he urged, hand sliding to your clit, rubbing slow tight circles. “Let go for me, bunny. Just one more.”

And you shattered.

You came with a sob, your whole body curling, clenching tight around him as the orgasm crashed through you like a wave. Bucky groaned loud, burying himself deep as he spilled inside you a second time — slow, drawn-out pleasure, his head dropping to your shoulder as he moaned your name like a prayer.

This time, he stayed pressed to you, both of you shaking. His hand never stopped stroking your belly, grounding you, murmuring soft nothings into your skin.

“I got you,” he whispered, brushing kisses along your shoulder. “You’re safe. So good for me. So perfect.”

You weren’t sure how long you lay there, boneless and warm, cradled between the polished wood of his desk and the solid heat of his body.

Eventually, Bucky stirred.

“Okay, sweetheart,” he whispered against your temple, “c’mon. Let me take care of you.”

You made a little noise of protest — half whimper, half pout — but he was already scooping you up, strong arms holding you close as he carried you across the room. He set you gently on the leather couch in the corner of his office, murmuring soft praise as he tucked a throw blanket around your bare legs.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, pressing a kiss to your hairline.

A few moments later, he returned — warm towel in hand, a bottle of water, one of his dress shirts draped over his arm. You blinked up at him, still floaty, and he smiled as he knelt between your knees.

“Let me clean you up, bunny.”

You nodded, and he was so careful with you — dabbing between your thighs, soothing the sensitivity with tender strokes and quiet apologies. When you winced, he paused instantly.

“Too much?”

You shook your head. “No… just sensitive. But it’s okay. Feels nice.”

His eyes softened. “You’re such a good girl for me.”

Once he was done, he helped you into his shirt, buttoning it slowly over your chest with hands that had just been ruthless to your body — now gentle, reverent. You nestled into him as he sat beside you, pulling you into his lap like you weighed nothing at all.

His hand found your thigh under the blanket. The other cradled the back of your head.

“You really okay?” he murmured into your hair.

You nodded, cheek resting on his chest. “More than okay. You?”

He chuckled, low and warm. “I just had you screaming my name over my desk, bunny.“

You giggled against his neck.

“Don’t tempt me,” you whispered. “I’ll put another bunny in your pocket tomorrow.”

He groaned dramatically. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“You love it.”

He didn’t deny it.

⋆⁺₊✧ MASTERLIST

divider credit: @bernardsbendystraws !! big thanks xx

[pleasantlycrazyworld]

here's an idea: a Bucky smut fic where reader is usually pretty quiet in bed and he takes it as a personal challenge. (Like somehow holds your jaw open while pounding so that you can hold any noise in and over the next two round he can hear every noise you make)

Thank you for the request! I had so much fun writing this and I hope you like it!

This is pretty much pure smut, the reader is described as female briefly. It does end fluffy though <3

Bucky wasn’t used to silence. Not during this, at least.

You were everything he could want, soft where he needed, sharp where it counted, and warm all over. But when it came to the bedroom, you were quiet. Not cold or withdrawn you kissed him back like you were starving, pulled him close like you’d never wanted to be separated again but your sounds were small. Barely there gasps, shaky breaths, the occasional hum that ghosted past his ear.

“You really think I don’t notice?” His voice was low, just barely brushing your ear. His breath was warm, his body already pressing you down into the mattress like he owned you. You swallowed. “Notice what?” Bucky dragged his metal hand up your thigh, parting you so easily with a casual possessiveness that made your breath hitch. “How quiet you are, baby. Damn near silent when I’m deep inside you.” You shifted, already wet from his voice alone. “I… I don’t mean to.”

“Oh, I know.” He kissed your throat, teeth grazing just enough to make you squirm. “Know you’re not doing it on purpose. But now I need to know what you sound like when you can’t keep it in.” You blinked up at him. “I’m gonna ruin that silence tonight.” His eyes darkened. “And you’re gonna thank me for it.”

You’re already trembling, soft gasps escaping as he lays you back on the sheets. His palm ghosts over your jaw, you flinch just the tiniest bit. Not in fear. In anticipation. Like you know he’s going to push. He leans in, voice low, dangerous. “Open.”

When your lips part for him, he almost groans. Fuck, she’s gonna be the death of me.

Two fingers slide between your lips, not deep, just enough to make you vulnerable. Exposed. Make you his. Now there was no way you could bite it back. Can’t muffle any sounds. Can’t shut him out. His breathing hitched as he took in the sight under him. You look up at him with wide eyes, already flushed, already wrecked before he’s even moved. “You look so fuckin’ pretty like this,” he murmurs, lining himself up. “Can’t wait to hear every noise you’ve been hiding.”

And when he thrusts into you; hard and deep your eyes roll back, mouth falls open wider around his fingers, and finally…

There. That moan. That sharp, perfect crack in the silence. He watches as you fall apart in real-time. Watches you try to fight it and fail. “Yeah, baby,” he growls, thrusting harder. “That’s it. Give it to me. Let me fuckin’ hear you.” Every noise you make is his reward. Every gasp, every whimper, every choked little sob it’s better than he ever imagined. He wants to pull them out of her like thread, unraveling her one noise at a time.

You cried out, the sound catching in your throat as your body arched beneath him. But you couldn’t bite your lip. Couldn’t bury your face. Couldn’t stay silent. Not like this. Not with him keeping your mouth open like a prize. “That’s it,” he growled, hips slamming into you again. “Fuck, you sound so pretty when you let go.” You whimpered a high, breathy noise you didn’t even recognize as your own. “That’s my girl,” he purred, rhythm ruthless. “Let me hear that sweet voice. You’ve been hiding it from me for so long.”

Each thrust dragged a different sound from you, shaky moans, breathless gasps, one broken little sob that made his eyes flash with pure hunger.

“Think you can stay quiet with me? When I’m this deep in your tight little pussy?” he taunted, mouth against your cheek now. “I don’t think so.”

You came with a cry that echoed in the room, your voice breaks, it’s raw and breathy, your whole body tightening around him. There was no way to stifle it, no way to mask it. And he smiled as he felt you clench around him, your thighs shaking, mouth still held wide by his fingers. But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop now that he had you where he’s been dying to have you.

You barely had time to catch your breath before he flipped you over, chest pressed down to the sheets, ass in the air. “Still got more in you?” he asked, cock dragging along your sensitive folds. You shivered. “Y-Yeah--”

“That’s what I thought.” He slid back in slower, then set a bruising pace, pulling your hips back to meet every thrust. You tried to hold in the whimpers, but they spilled out anyway. Bucky reached around to grip your jaw again not roughly, just firm, thumb dragging your bottom lip down. “No hiding,” he purred the reminder in your ear. “Not tonight. Not with me.” You came again, louder this time. Raw. Honest.

You were trembling in his arms, body limp from overstimulation, lips red from how much sound he’d pulled from you. He held you close now soft strokes between your thighs, kisses on your temple. But when you whined softly in his lap, trying to catch your breath, he chuckled darkly. “Still think you can stay quiet, doll?” You shook your head weakly. “That’s what I fuckin’ thought.”

Your throat was raw. Your body hums with the kind of satisfaction that feels bone-deep; it feels heavy, spent, and warm in a way that leaves you wordless. For once, your silence has nothing to do with shame. You’re quiet because he took everything from you, and you gave it willingly. Now, you’re wrapped in his arms, both of you still slick with sweat and breathless, your head tucked under his chin. His metal arm curls securely around your waist while the warmth of his flesh hand traces lazy circles over your back, grounding you, keeping you here. 

“You okay?” Bucky murmurs, voice rough with effort and something softer…concern? Affection?

You nod into his chest. “More than okay.” He kisses your forehead. “Didn’t push too hard?” You pull back just enough to meet his eyes. “No. You…It was amazing.” His gaze softens immediately, like hearing that gives him permission to relax. His thumb brushes your cheek. “You sounded so fuckin’ beautiful, baby,” he says, voice almost reverent. “Didn’t realize how much I needed to hear you.” 

You smile, a little shy again. “You make it easy. To just let go.” His brows pull slightly. “I never want you to think you have to stay quiet for me. I want all of it. Every sound, every word… even the messy ones.” You laugh softly, and he smiles at the sound like it’s his new favorite thing. “I didn’t think you’d care so much,” you admit. Bucky’s hand tilts your chin until you’re looking right at him. “I care about everything when it comes to you. Even the stuff you don’t say out loud.”

You kiss him, slow and thankful. And when he wraps you tighter against him, tucking the blanket around your legs, you let yourself melt into that feeling of safety, of softness, of being so utterly heard. Maybe tomorrow he’ll tease you for the sounds you made. Maybe he’ll chase them again. But right now?

He just holds you.  And for once, your silence means peace. Not hiding.

If you like my work please let me know! Reblogging, commenting and liking are huge and easy ways to let me know you're enjoying my work and it keeps me motivated to post way more!!! Request are open <3

[carmysdoll]

“Shhh, you can take it” Bucky cooed in a tauntingly sweet tone, his warm hands softly rubbing your trembling thighs. he couldn’t help but smirk as he looked down on your trembling form, you arching your spine into such a delicious curvature, face stuffed into the sheets ; muffling your loud cries and moans.

“Shit- shit, s-so deep- bucky -” you’re mewling out, bringing your hand back to try to push at his abdomen that was pressed against the plush skin of your ass. But he’s quickly grabbing your wrist and pulling you up, your other arm quickly moving to help hold you up before you fall on your face.

The lewd sounds of Bucky fucking into you from behind filled your shared room along with your pitiful moans and whines, your nails digging into the warm skin of his forearm as he held your arm behind your back. Bucky smirks as he stops his thrusts, a loud choked out moan escaping your lips at the feeling of him being balls deep inside of you.

Your eyes were clouded with pleasure and unshed tears as you tilted your head to look back at your boyfriend, and with just one look at your face he could see how stupidly cockdrunken you truly are as you cried out “t-too much!”

“Be my good fuckin’ girl and take it — yeahhh fuck yourself on ma cock” bucky trailed off into deep groan as your hips cant help but shake and twitch from him being so deep. You sniffle and drop your head between your shoulders, squeezing the sheets until your hand aches, the only thing on your mind was making bucky cum.

Bucky’s abs clenched and his hold on you tightens as he tilts his head back with a loud moan, enjoying the feeling of you fucking yourself back against him. The sound of skin slapping and your pretty moans n whimpers helps create a cocky smirk on his lips “Ngh-that’s ma girl”

🏷️ ⨟ @littlejoels @pixiebratz

[shymagnolia]

so I got into grad school today with my shitty 2.8 gpa and the moral of the story is reblog those good luck posts for the love of god

[shymagnolia]

okay so i just got my dream job??? a week after applying to it?? and now i’m thinking….maybe this is the good luck post

[flagellant]

…..not even six hours later i got an offer of a well paying full time long-term job with free room and board in queens in nyc, allowing me independence and a way to escape an abusive situation and an unhealthy environment

likes charge reblogs cast, folks, this is the good luck post

[coffee-or-hot-cocoa]

i need all the help i can get for finals

[finnglas]

Hey so

the last time I reblogged this post right before I got a great job, in a permanent work-from-home position, with benefits, retirement, and a salary literally 3x what I was making before, doing something I really like. 

So you know. 

This might be the real one, y’all.

[bucky-barnes-diaries]

The First Time

Pairing || Beefy!Bucky x Female!Reader

Summary || Bucky takes your virginity.

World Count || 3414

Contents & Warnings || Fluff, Smut — NSFW, 18+ Only, Minors DNI, pet names, virgin!reader, loss of virginity, protected vaginal sex, oral (female receiving), mention of bodily fluids.

Disclaimer || English is not my first language so I apologise for any mistakes or misunderstandings!

Beefy!Bucky Masterlist

You and Bucky had been in a relationship together for three incredible months now. Before that, you and he had been friends for two years. You have had a crush on him for what felt like forever, your heart skipping a beat every time he smiled at you, but you never had the courage to do anything about it due to your previous relationships.

It took a little matchmaking from your mutual friend, Natasha, who knew that you were both pining for each other, for Bucky to finally ask you out since he had been holding those same feelings for you all along.

One of the reasons that it had taken him such a long time to ask you out was his deep-seated insecurities. The weight of his past still haunted him, and he was terrified that you would end up hurt because of him. But you wanted nothing more than to be with him.

You cherished every moment of your friendship with Bucky, but these past three months of dating had been absolutely magical, filled with tender moments.

One thing that had been absent in your relationship was sex. Bucky was incredibly attentive to your comfort, never once pressuring you with the topic of sex, always letting you set the pace.

During those heated make-out sessions on his worn leather sofa, when his touches became more passionate and his breathing more ragged, he always stopped to check on you, his blue eyes filled with concern and care. When you told him you weren’t in the mood, he would simply kiss your temple softly, pull you close against his warm chest, and hold you there, making you feel safe and cherished.

But you hadn’t been entirely honest with him about something important. The real reason you avoided taking things further during passionate moments was your virginity. Past experiences had made it difficult to open up about it because previous boyfriends had mocked you for it, leaving you with deep trust issues.

But Bucky was different, you knew it. His gentle soul, caring nature, and dedication to your happiness and comfort made you feel safe in a way you had never felt before. Tonight, you were ready to open up to him. You were ready to share this intimate truth with him and hopefully take this next step in your relationship together.

You found yourself on his sofa after an exhausting day at work. Your lips moved together in perfect sync as his strong hands, flesh and metal, held your waist with just the right amount of pressure. Your fingers were tangled in his soft hair, keeping him close as you lost yourself in the moment. The movie playing in the background became nothing more than white noise.

His lips felt incredible against yours, soft yet demanding, as his hands explored your curves with touches that sent tingles through your body. The desire to go further, to feel more of him, was overwhelming. It was stronger than you have ever felt before.

But that familiar voice of insecurity whispered in the back of your mind, bringing a wave of anxiety with it. What if Bucky was just like the others? What if your virginity was a deal-breaker to him? Deep in your heart, you knew he would never react that way.

When his warm hand slipped under your shirt, slowly inching higher towards your breasts, you forced yourself to pause.

“Bucky, wait.” He immediately pulled back, his blue eyes meeting yours with concern, panic flashing across his features. “I’m sorry, doll, if I went too far.” His thumb gently caressed your cheek, his face portraying genuine worry and apology.

“N-no, it’s not that. I-I liked that, I just… I need to tell you something.” He nodded encouragingly, his patient silence giving you the strength to continue.

Here goes nothing.

“I’m a virgin,” you whispered, ducking your head in embarrassment. His fingers gently caught your chin, tilting your face back up to meet his gaze. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was scared and ashamed that you… that you may not want me if you knew,” your voice trembled as you poured out to him, and despite your best efforts to stay composed, a tear escaped, rolling down your cheek. Your past rejections weighed heavily on your heart in this vulnerable moment.

“Don’t want you?” He shook his head, his expression softening as he caught your tear with his thumb. “I want nothing more than you, doll. I hope I’ve never made you uncomfortable. I never want you to feel pressured to have sex with me. Never.” His voice was thick with emotion, so full of sincerity that it made your heart flutter.

You surprised him with a sweet kiss. The moment couldn’t have been more perfect—his acceptance lifted a weight you had been carrying for so long.

“You’ve never pressured me, Bucky. You have always been respectful and understanding.”

He pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead before leaning his body against yours, his warmth and comfort enveloping you. “How about we just cuddle tonight?” His hands tenderly cupped your cheeks as he placed a feather-light kiss on the tip of your nose.

You shook your head, bringing his lips back to yours in a passionate, searing kiss. The desire coursing through your veins was overwhelming—you wanted him more than ever, you needed to feel him completely.

“I want you, Bucky. I’ve never wanted anything more. Please…”

“Are you sure? We don’t have to if you’re not ready. I can wait for as long as you need.”

“I’ve never been so sure of something in my life as this. I trust you completely.”

In one fluid movement, he pulled you to straddle his lap, making you gasp. The atmosphere was growing heavy with your shared desire and anticipation.

“Say it again, doll,” he murmured in your ear, his lips brushing against your skin as he placed a soft kiss on your cheek.

“I want you, Bucky. Please.”

He picked you up with strong, sure hands, making you shriek with delight as he carried you bridal-style to his bedroom. Laying you carefully down on the plush mattress, he pressed his warm body against yours, and you reveled in the delicious weight of him on top as he kissed you breathless. His kisses were deep and passionate, filled with such pure adoration that your heart fluttered in your chest.

He reached back and tugged off his red Henley, revealing his perfect physique inch by tantalizing inch. Bucky wasn’t just painfully beautiful, he was also hot. Your fingers itched to trace his skin, to feel his perfect body. Next, he slowly removed his pants, leaving him only in his tight black underwear. The impressive outline of him was clearly visible through the thin fabric, making your breath catch.

“Can I please undress you?” His voice was husky with desire but still gentle, his hair falling over his eyes.

You nodded eagerly while biting your bottom lips, your chest rising and falling with quick breaths. Although desire coursed hot through your veins, you couldn’t help but feel shy at the thought of being completely exposed before him. Bucky, ever so attentive, sensed your slight hesitation.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, doll. We can take things slow. At your own tempo.” His eyes were soft with understanding.

“I want to keep going. I-I’m just a little nervous,” you murmured, biting the inside of your cheek while your fingers fidgeted.

He traced your brow with the pad of his thumb, his touch feather-light and soothing, his voice warm and reassuring. “We’re in this together, You and me. I want to make this as perfect and comfortable as I possibly can for you.”

“Keep going, please. Undress me and make me yours.” Your voice was barely above a whisper, but filled with trust.

With a quick, tender kiss to your lips, he helped remove your clothing piece by piece, his movements slow. As each article was discarded, his eyes grew wider, a dark mixture of adoration and burning hunger. He left you bra and panties on, giving you time to get comfortable. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever laid my eyes on,” he breathed.

He kissed you passionately before his lips began a torturous journey downward, leaving a trail of heated kisses across your neck, paying special attention to that sensitive spot underneath your ear. His lips and tongue worked together perfectly, making you hum as your fingers threaded through his hair. The path of kisses led him to the valley between your breasts, where he paused to look up at you for permission, which you gave. His hands, one warm flesh and one cool metal, reached underneath you to unclasp your bra. Once removed, his attention was on your exposed skin. He worshiped every inch with his lips and tongue, and when he finally took your sensitive nipples into his mouth, altering between gentle sucks and teasing flicks, you couldn’t help but arch into his touch and release a breathy moan.

He looked up at you, his lips parted and pupils dilated, and hair falling deliciously over his face. Your eyes widened, suddenly feeling self-conscious about your vocal response, but Bucky’s reassuring smile immediately put you at ease.

“I don’t want you to hold back. Make any sound that you want so I know what makes you feel good. I want you to enjoy yourself, doll.” His voice was rough with desire but still so tender.

He continued his descent, placing open-mouthed kisses across your stomach, each touch and kiss sending sparks of pleasure through your body. The further down he went, leaving a trail of heat in his wake, the more your legs parted instinctively, anticipating what was to come. Your body seemed to know exactly what it wanted, even if your mind was racing with nervousness.

Once he was finally nestled between your open legs, he looked up at you through hooded eyes, his breath ragged and pupils blown with desire. “Can I taste you?” He murmured, his hot breath fanning across your covered core, making your back arch slightly and goosebumps ghosting your skin. You frantically nodded, your whole body trembling with anticipation, needing him to continue, wanting desperately to feel his mouth on your most intimate part.

He carefully, and slowly, pulled down your panties, his metal hand cool against your heated skin. Your heart was pounding so hard in your chest you were sure he could hear it. You have never gone this far before, but you trusted Bucky completely. You knew he would take care of you.

Bucky’s tongue traced his lower lip as he saw you bare and exposed, already wet and ready for his mouth. He spread your legs wider with gentle but firm hands to get a perfect view of your pussy, his eyes darkening at the sight before him.

“So beautiful,” he murmured while placing soft, teasing kisses along your inner thigh, slowly working his way towards your waiting pussy. When his tongue finally licked a broad stripe up your center, he kept his intense gaze locked on your face, studying your reactions to learn what made you feel good. You let out a surprise gasp at the unfamiliar yet incredible delicious sensation. He did it once more, this time slower and with more pressure, and you threw your head back into the pillows while gripping his dark locks between your trembling fingers.

“O-oh, t-that’s good,” you moaned breathlessly as Bucky worshiped you with his mouth. His lips wrapped around your sensitive clit, expertly switching between sucking and flicking with his tongue, while his metal hand held your hip steady to keep you from squirming. Your senses were completely overwhelmed with pleasure, every nerve ending on fire. If he kept going at this pace, you were going to come embarrassingly soon, but Bucky took notice and suddenly released you. You let out a frustrated whimper as the pending orgasm was ripped from you, your body still trembling with need.

“Hmm, you taste absolutely incredible, doll. The way you respond to me drives me wild,” he murmured against your inner thigh, his hot breath making you shiver. “As much as I would love to feel you come undone on my tongue as I watch you fall apart, I need to be inside you. I want us to come together, want to feel you wrapped around me when we both let go.”

He captured your lips in a passionate kiss, your tongues dancing together desperately as you savored the taste of each other. His metal hand cupped your cheek while his flesh one traced patterns on your hip. “Don’t move,” he murmured against your swollen lips. “I’ll go get a condom.” He gave you one last lingering peck before pulling away and disappearing into his bathroom. You could hear him rummaging around frantically for the item, cursing lowly under his breath as more drawers were opened and closed on his mission to find a condom. A few moments later he emerged with it in hand, a victorious smile playing on his lips.

You couldn’t help but giggle at his eagerness as he climbed back on top of you, immediately claiming your mouth in another fierce kiss that left you breathless. With trembling fingers, you tugged at his underwear, helping him shimmy out of them. Your hand experimentally wrapped around his length, making him groan deeply against your neck. His mouth fell open as you slowly moved your hand up and down his impressive cock. He was bigger than you’d imagined, and a flutter of nervousness passed through you as you wondered how painful it might be for your first time. But that anxiety was quickly overshadowed by pure want. You needed to feel him inside you, needed his passionate kisses and whispered praises in your ear. You trusted Bucky completely, knowing that he would be gentle and considerate. That he would take care of you like he always did.

You released him from your grip so he could roll the condom on, watching with hooded eyes as he prepared himself. Before you knew it, he was positioning himself between your thighs, his tip pressing against your entrance as he looked deep into your eyes, silently asking permission one final time. “Please,” you breathed out, running your hands up his strong arms. “I’m so ready, Bucky. Please, I want you.”

He slowly pushed inside your tightness, the initial stretch making you whimper and shut your eyes at the slight burning sensation. Your fingers dug into his shoulders as you tried to adjust to his size, your breath coming in short gasps.

“Are you OK? Do you want to stop,” he asked with genuine concern, his flesh hand tenderly cradling your face while his metal one held him upright, the plates whirring softly with the strain of holding back. His eyes searched yours intently, ready to pull away at the slightest sign of stress. “N-no, please keep going. I need you.”

When he was fully situated inside you, stretching you deliciously, he took his time to kiss all over your face—your forehead, your closed eyelids, your warm cheeks—making you giggle. His stubble tickled your skin as his journey of tender kisses ended with an achingly sweet one to your lips. “I love you, doll. Thank you for trusting me with this, with everything.”

That was the first time he had said those three precious words to you and it made your heart almost burst out of your chest. “I love you too,” you whispered, cupping his face in your hands and stroking his cheekbones with your thumbs, “now, please move. I want to feel you take me and make me yours completely.”

He pulled out until only his tip remained inside before pushing back in with excruciating slowness, making you moan and cling to him tighter, your nails leaving marks on his broad shoulders. He repeated this careful motion several times, each thrust helping your body adjust to his impressive size.

“Please, Bucky,” you breathed against his lips, your legs hooking around his waist to pull him closer, begging him to take you properly. Your heels dug into his lower back as your body arched underneath him. He let out a deep, throaty groan that sent shivers down your spine and buried his face in your neck, kissing and sucking your sensitive skin as his hips began to move with purpose against you.

“You feel incredible, doll,” he groaned against your neck, his hot breath fanning across your heated skin, making you whimper sweetly. Bucky took notice of your reaction, adjusting his hips until he found that perfect spot that made you see stars. your whole body trembling underneath him.

He rested his forehead against yours, his blue eyes, dark with desire, gazed deeply into yours as you climbed higher towards release together. Your fingers tangled in his soft brown hair, tugging lightly as his flesh hand snaked down between your bodies to where you were joined, his skilled fingers finding and circling your sensitive clit. The dual sensation of him stimulating your clit and the tip of his cock brushing your sweet spot made your whole body sing with pleasure, your back arching off the bed. “Oh f-f-fuck, I’m so close, Bucky. Please don’t stop.”

He maintained a steady, passionate rhythm, determined to make you fall apart around him. The thought of him being the first, and hopefully only, to ever make you come undone like this had your head spinning, your vision blurring at the edges as pleasure built to an almost unbearable peak.

“Come for me, baby. I need to feel you,” he breathed against your ear, his voice rough with desire. His words sent electricity down your spine and that was the final push you needed. Your pussy pulsed around him as waves of intense pleasure took complete control over your body. You threw your head back against the pillows as stars exploded behind your vision, your fingers digging into his shoulders. With one final, deep thrust, he spilled inside the condom while burying his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath and muffled moans of pleasure sending shivers across your skin. He continued to move against you with slow, gentle thrusts, drawing out both of your highs until you were shaking underneath him.

As you both started to come down from your shared orgasm, he pressed a series of soft, loving kisses to your lips, making you hum in delight. You hissed at the loss when he carefully pulled out of you, immediately missing the feeling of fullness. He rolled to the side, discarding the condom, before pulling you close, tucking you perfectly against his warm chest. You nestled into his embrace, ear pressed to his chest where you could hear his calming heartbeat, as he traced gentle patterns across your back with his fingertips.

The room fell into a peaceful silence, filled only with the sound of your synchronized breathing as you basked in the afterglow of your shared bliss, savoring each other’s warmth and tender touches. After several minutes of comfortable silence, you were the first one to speak.

“That was absolutely incredible, Bucky,” you whispered against his chest, tilting your head up to meet his adoring gaze. “Thank you for being so sweet and caring, and for making my first time more special than I could have ever imagined.”

“Always, doll,” he responded with a tender smile, his metal hand coming up to gently pinch your chin as he guided your lips to his for a slow, deep kiss. “Thank you for trusting me. I feel like the luckiest man alive to be the first, and I hope only one, to ever make you come like that.”

You giggled softly against his lips, pressing another kiss to them before dropping your voice to a sultry whisper. “Well, lucky for you, Mr. Barnes, you’re the only one who will ever be allowed to make me come like that for the rest of our lives.”

“Hmm, is that a promise, doll?” He playfully growled, his eyes darkening with renewed desire as he swiftly rolled on top of you once more, caging you beneath his strong body. “Because I intend to spend the rest of my life proving just how lucky I am to do so.” His lips descended on yours again, ready to make good on that promise.

Thank you for reading 🖤 Feedback through a comment is highly appreciated! Or let me know through an anonymous ask if that feels more comfortable. As well as a reblog to share my work with other people! I would really appreciate it 🖤

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[danysdaughter]

bucky seeing p0rn for the first time after the dating apps don’t work out👀

I'm deadddd, this was so vague so I just ran with it

The Education Of James Buchanan Barnes

pairing | post!tfatws!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 6.3k words

summary | when dating apps fail him and thirst traps become his downfall, bucky barnes finds himself spiraling down the internet’s most unholy rabbit hole—pornhub.

what starts as horrified research turns into full-blown obsession... especially when you, his sharp-tongued best friend, catch him red-handed and make very sure he lives out every filthy fantasy he’s been hiding.

tags | (18+) MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, rough sex, face sitting, breeding kink dirty talk, roleplay mentions, overstimulation, sexual humor, porn discovery, reader catches bucky watching porn, friends to very horny lovers, reader is a menace, teasing, flustered bucky, dom!bucky, subtle power play, consent is sexy, reader rides his face, doggy style, missionary? i hardly know her, mutual pining (solved by porn), no use of y/n, reader is a problem and bucky loves it, aftercare.

a/n | yeah, I definitely went overboard with this. I hope you freaks enjoy this

taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

You sipped your drink slowly, already biting the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing as Bucky glared into his beer like it had personally betrayed him.

“So,” Sam started, barely hiding his smirk. “How was the date with... what was her name again? Velvet? Vixen?”

“Vesper,” Bucky muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “And she asked if I’d be into choking her with my vibranium arm before we even finished our drinks.”

You snorted into your glass.

Sam leaned forward, grinning. “I mean... was she wrong?”

“Sam.” Bucky’s glare was instant, but mostly performative. “I just met her.”

You glanced at him over your glass, amused. “What app did you find this one on?”

He groaned. “The same one you said was ‘normal.’”

“No one said it was normal,” you said, raising a brow. “I said it was better than Tinder. That’s not a high bar.”

Bucky leaned back with a sigh, looking thoroughly done with the entire 21st century. “I miss when people met at soda shops and asked each other about their families instead of sending... pictures of their genitals.”

Sam barked a laugh. “Aw, poor Grandpa’s overwhelmed by the sex-positive future.”

“You know what’s not positive?” Bucky muttered. “The fact that I Googled ‘how to get back out of the dating app’ and it sent me to a subreddit with people just as confused as I am.”

You exchanged a look with Sam, both of you clearly enjoying this way too much.

“Have you... considered other ways to meet people?” you asked, trying not to grin. “Like not being a digital hermit?”

Bucky looked between the two of you, deadpan. “I’m this close to living in the jungle again.”

Sam raised his glass. “To Bucky Barnes, the only man who can bench-press a car but can’t survive Hinge.”

Bucky slammed his glass down—not hard, but with enough force to earn a side-eye from the bartender.

“I just don’t get it,” he muttered. “I’m trying to talk to these women like a normal person. I say, ‘Hi, how was your day?’ and one of them responds with—” he fumbled with his phone, squinting at the screen, “‘Send me a pic of the arm, baby, I wanna see what’s gonna rearrange my insides.’”

You choked.

Sam full-on cackled, grabbing his chest. “Wait—rearrange her insides? Yo, that’s poetry.”

“She sent a GIF after that,” Bucky went on, staring at the phone like it might explode. “A GIF. Of a hydraulic press crushing a watermelon. What does that mean?”

“I’m gonna die,” you wheezed, nearly spilling your drink. “She wants you to hydraulically press her coochie, Barnes. Come on.”

“I thought she was making a smoothie metaphor!” Bucky snapped. “And then another one asked if I was into CNC. I said I didn’t know what that meant, and she said ‘perfect.’”

Sam wiped a tear from his eye. “Oh my god—Bucky, you’re gonna end up in someone’s kink diary.”

“She sent me a TikTok about edging,” Bucky added, horror slowly overtaking his face. “I thought it was about gardening.”

You completely lost it, head in your arms on the table. “Please stop, I can’t breathe.”

Bucky scowled. “I’m serious! She said she wanted to edge me for hours, and I said that sounded peaceful, like a nice walk—and she sent back forty-seven emojis.”

Sam gasped between wheezes. “You’re getting sexted in hieroglyphics and you think it’s a hike, I’m begging you to never leave the house again.”

Bucky looked between you both, betrayal written across his face. “I survived Hydra. I survived seventy years of brainwashing. But I will not survive being called ‘daddy’ by a woman who lists her job as ‘freelance foot model and energy witch.’”

“Wait—did she have the crystals?” you asked, barely able to form the words.

He nodded grimly. “She said my aura was ‘screaming trauma kink.’”

Sam actually slid off the stool, wheezing on the floor.

He shut the door behind him with a dull thunk, then stood there for a moment in the silence. The kind that pressed in around the edges when no one else was around. Just him, the creak of the old radiator, and the words “rearrange my insides” still echoing in his head like a ghost.

Bucky sighed, tossed his jacket onto the back of a chair, and walked into the kitchen, opening the fridge as if disappointment wouldn’t be waiting there too. One beer left. Great.

He grabbed it, popped the cap off with his metal hand, and made his way over to his laptop.

It sat there on the table like a challenge.

He opened it. The familiar whir kicked on. A sigh slipped through his teeth.

“I fought in two wars,” he muttered to himself. “Survived Hydra. Took down a helicarrier. But this? This is the real enemy.”

He hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Then he typed:

"What does CNC mean?"

Enter.

He leaned forward slowly, reading the top search result. Then the second.

His eyebrows pulled together. His mouth fell open just slightly.

"...Consensual non-consent?"

He clicked the link. Read further.

He leaned back in his chair like he’d just been shot.

“Why—why would anyone want that?” he muttered, scandalized. “That’s just... that’s just assault with permission.”

Still, he didn’t close the tab.

He opened a new one instead.

"Edging meaning (not gardening)"

More links. More acronyms. More trauma.

His face contorted in quiet horror as he scanned descriptions, diagrams, tips and techniques.

His beer sat forgotten on the table.

Eventually, he clicked a link that just said “beginner’s guide to porn kinks.” It was a blog. Fairly clinical. Until it wasn’t.

Then he clicked another.

And another.

Until eventually he wound up on a site with thumbnails—little videos with previews. Titles he didn’t fully understand.

He stared at one.

A girl, on her knees, mouth open, eyes wide.

Title: “Training My Pretty Submissive Brat”

He blinked. Then hovered. Clicked.

The video loaded.

He sat still, very still, as it started playing.

And then...

“What the hell—” he whispered.

The guy was talking. Dirty. Commanding.

The girl was moaning like someone had just whispered state secrets in her ear. She was calling him sir. Begging. Crying out when he—

Bucky slammed the spacebar to pause the video, hand clenched on the table.

He stood. Paced.

‘I shouldn’t be watching this,’ he thought, running his hand through his hair. ‘This is wrong. This is not—that’s not—’

He looked back at the screen.

Unpaused.

A few seconds passed.

He sat again.

Watched. Silent. Rigid.

His jaw clenched. His eyes darted across the screen like he was scanning enemy movement.

Then his hand—his metal hand—tapped the edge of the keyboard.

Paused again.

His chest rose and fell.

“I mean… he’s not hurting her,” he thought. “She’s asking for it. She likes it.”

Beat.

“And she’s loud.”

He sat back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, glaring at the paused screen like it had insulted him personally.

Then he muttered, “Is that what people want now?”

He reopened the search bar.

"How to talk dirty in bed"

The search results hit him like a grenade.

By the third article, his ears were red. His fingers hovered over the trackpad like they didn’t know whether to scroll or just snap the whole laptop in half.

He clicked another video.

This one was slower. More intimate.

The woman straddled the guy’s lap, whispering in his ear. He growled something back, then pushed her down on the bed—

Bucky’s breath caught.

He didn’t even notice his hand moving under the table at first.

Didn’t notice the low groan that slipped from his throat when the man on screen said, “Good girl—just like that.”

He froze. Eyes wide. Mouth dry.

He swallowed hard.

“…I need another beer.”

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t stop watching.

Because something in him had been starved for this. For contact. For control. For someone wanting him, even in fantasy.

The next video autoplayed before he could stop it.

Another couple. This time, softer lighting. Moaning, whispered praise. Her back arched under his touch as he moved slow, deliberate, like every second was sacred.

Bucky swallowed hard.

He sat motionless for a full minute.

Then his hand drifted down.

Hesitant. Awkward.

He undid the button of his jeans, fingers brushing over the bulge in his briefs. The contact was enough to make his breath stutter.

“Jesus,” he whispered.

He shifted in his seat, pushed his jeans down just enough, and curled his hand around himself. Warm skin against cool air. His metal hand clenched uselessly on the table as the other moved slowly, uncertain.

The sounds from the video—soft, rhythmic, intimate—filled the room.

And Bucky gave in.

His eyes didn’t close. He watched—studied—the way the man touched her, held her, spoke to her like she was something precious and filthy all at once.

“Such a good girl,” the man murmured. “Taking all of me. Just like that.”

Bucky bit down on a groan, his hand moving faster now, hips twitching in his seat.

He imagined saying those words.

And then—

He imagined you.

Your voice, sharp and sarcastic, going breathy and soft when he touched you. Your legs around his waist. Your fingers in his hair. Your mouth whispering his name like it meant something.

And that thought—you, under him, with him—wrecked him.

He jerked harder, gritting his teeth, chest rising fast.

A low moan slipped out. Sharp. Uncontrolled.

His head fell back, eyes clenched shut as heat coiled in his gut. His body trembled.

One more stroke—

And he came.

Hard.

He let out a strangled noise, hips lifting off the couch, body seizing as white-hot pleasure shot through him. His hand slowed, milked every last pulse, until the aftershocks faded and all that was left was—

Silence. Reality. Shame.

His breath was harsh in his ears.

The screen was still playing.

The woman moaned, laughing, pulling the man closer.

Bucky stared. Then looked down.

At himself. At the mess.

At the way his hand was still wrapped around his cock, softening now, shame creeping in like a slow burn.

He let go like he’d been scalded.

The aftershocks hadn’t even faded before the guilt hit—cold and immediate.

Not from what he’d watched.

Not even from what he’d done.

But from who he’d seen in his mind while he did it.

You.

You, laughing beside him at the bar. You, rolling your eyes at his brooding. You, calling him “grandpa” and meaning it with affection.

You—beneath him, moaning, touching, giving yourself to him in the fantasy that had just ripped through his body.

His stomach twisted.

He yanked his pants back up, hands clumsy, face burning not with arousal now—but with shame.

“Fuck,” he muttered, pacing, one hand raking through his hair, the other clenching into a fist. “Fuck—what the hell’s wrong with me?”

You were his friend.

You were real.

And he’d just used the idea of you like… like some porn star on a screen.

His jaw tightened. He couldn’t look at the laptop. Couldn’t look at himself. He felt dirty—not because he’d touched himself, but because it felt like a betrayal. A violation of something pure.

He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

That hadn’t been just need.

That had been you.

And now he didn’t know how the hell he was supposed to look you in the eye again.

A Few Weeks Later

There was a knock at the door.

Three knocks, then a pause.

Then two more.

“Come on, Barnes,” your voice called through the door. “I brought sacrificial offerings.”

Bucky hesitated.

He sat in the dark, boots still on, bruised knuckles resting against his knees. His hoodie clung to him, sweat-damp and rumpled, his mind still halfway in the mission, halfway in the same loop it had been stuck in for weeks.

But it was you.

He got up slowly and opened the door.

You stood there with a paper bag in one hand, a six-pack in the other, grinning like you had zero intention of leaving whether he wanted you to or not.

“You gonna let me in or should I start monologuing like a Bond villain?”

He stepped aside without a word.

You strolled in like you owned the place, already heading to the kitchen with practiced ease.

“Brought dumplings, noodles, and enough alcohol to bleach the taste of both from your soul,” you said, setting things down. “You looked like someone clubbed you with your own metal arm last mission, so—figured I’d play nurse. A sexy, underqualified nurse with boundary issues.”

Bucky closed the door quietly behind you.

“You’re not a nurse,” he muttered.

“Not with that attitude.”

You popped the beers open, handed him one, then flopped onto his couch like you lived there. Legs kicked up, food containers opened without ceremony, your usual grin in place.

He stood a few feet away, beer untouched in his hand.

He hadn’t seen you in weeks—not really. He’d ducked every casual run-in, bailed on team movie nights, even ghosted your texts under the excuse of "needing space." He figured you noticed.

You just hadn’t said anything.

Until now.

You eyed him, casually, between bites. “You gonna sit down or do I need to pull you onto the couch like a Victorian housewife?”

He sat. Slowly. Farther away than usual.

You noticed. Of course you did. But you didn’t call him on it.

Not yet.

Instead, you nudged a container toward him and said, “Eat, soldier. You look like a sad, haunted lumberjack.”

And still—he didn’t say a word.

Because all he could think about, sitting beside you again after a month of silence, was the way your mouth had looked in that fantasy.

The way your voice had sounded moaning his name.

The way he’d used the memory of your real, friendly, teasing self to—

He swallowed thickly.

You kept eating, casual, sharp, familiar.

Exactly how he remembered. Exactly what made it so much worse.

You wiped your fingers on a napkin, leaned back, and gave him a look.

“Alright. You look like you’re two seconds from overthinking yourself into an early grave. Movie time. Something with violence or explosions—your love language.”

Before he could protest, you were already standing and heading toward his desk.

“Wait—” he said, starting to rise, but too slow.

You flipped open his laptop. “Let’s see what Grandpa Barnes has in his—”

“Ah—ahh—yes, please—!”

The moaning hit like a tactical nuke.

You froze.

So did he.

Both of you staring wide-eyed at the screen as the speakers screamed filth into the otherwise silent apartment.

Bucky moved fast.

Too fast.

He lunged over the couch, hand outstretched like he was taking enemy fire.

You dodged.

Smooth, practiced. Years of training paying off.

“No—” he barked, face already crimson, “Please—don’t—!”

“Oh my god—” you laughed, holding the laptop just out of reach. “Is this—is this Pornhub? Are you seriously—you are! You’ve been watching porn, you absolute degenerate.”

He groaned, dragging his hand down his face, mortified.

“Please give me the laptop,” he said, voice low, wounded, like you were holding a hostage.

But you were already clicking the spacebar, pausing the video mid-thrust.

“Oooh,” you said, squinting at the tab title. “‘Brat tamer destroys needy sub’? This is what you’re into?” You looked at him, eyebrows raised. “Bucky.”

“Stop,” he muttered, pacing now, hands on his hips. “I was—researching.”

“Researching what? The anatomy of a throatfuck?” you said, howling with laughter. “Brat tamer—are you even on Tumblr, old man?”

He looked like he wanted the floor to open and consume him.

“Do you know how much I regret every decision that led to this moment?”

You hugged the laptop to your chest dramatically. “I can’t believe you’ve been hiding this. The secrets. The shame. The kinks.”

“Give. It. Back.”

“Nope. Not until we find out if you’ve got a whole ‘rough dom Bucky’ fantasy folder stashed somewhere. You into praise? Degradation? Impact play? Knife play?”

He growled.

Actually growled.

And for half a second, it stopped being funny.

Because the way his eyes locked on you?

That wasn’t embarrassment anymore.

That was heat. Low. Dangerous.

You grinned, too drunk on the chaos to stop.

“Come on, Barnes,” you said, laptop still clutched like a prize. “Own it. You like a little bratty backtalk? You want someone to whimper please while you tell her she’s being a bad girl?”

He was still pacing, but slower now. Controlled. Coiled.

You didn’t notice.

You were too busy poking the bear.

“Is that what you’re into?” you teased, stepping back. “All that repressed soldier shit finally coming out in dirty little commands and throat grips?”

His eyes met yours. Still embarrassed, sure. But behind it? Something sharper. Something hungry.

“Y’know,” you added, tone light, teasing, “I always pegged you as more of a soft dom. Gentle hands. Lots of praise. But this? This is dark. Kinda filthy. Kinda hot.”

That did it. He moved.

Fast.

Faster than he should’ve.

One second, you were smirking with the laptop; the next, it was out of your hands, clattering to the couch. You were against the wall, chest rising, his body a breath away from yours.

His hand planted next to your head.

His voice low. Controlled.

“Enough.”

You stared at him. The air was suddenly thick. Your heart thudded once, hard.

“You think this is a joke?” he asked, eyes burning into you.

Your mouth parted, but no sound came out.

“You think I don’t know you’ve been toying with me since the moment you walked in?”

That teasing smile faltered—just a little.

“You keep pushing,” he murmured, leaning in, breath brushing your jaw. “You laugh, you flirt, you play. But you don’t realize... I’ve thought about you. In ways I shouldn’t.”

You swallowed.

Hard.

“I know what I watched,” he went on, voice rough, low, dangerous. “I know who I imagined.”

Your breath caught.

His eyes dropped to your lips.

Then back up.

And when he spoke again, it wasn’t a threat.

It was a promise.

“You want to see what I’m into?”

You blinked up at him—cornered, caged—but not afraid.

Not even close. Your smile crept back, slower this time. Calculated.

“Oh,” you murmured, tone shifting. “You imagined me?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened.

His silence said everything.

You pushed your palms slowly against his chest, feeling the way his body tensed under your touch. Solid. Barely held together.

You leaned in, lips brushing just beneath his ear.

“So tell me,” you whispered, voice low and coaxing. “If you’ve already pictured it, Barnes... what did I look like?”

He exhaled harshly through his nose.

You didn’t stop.

“What was I doing?” you went on, dragging your fingers down the curve of his chest. “Was I on my knees? Bent over? Did I ride you while you begged for it?”

A choked sound left him—more breath than voice.

You smiled against his neck. “Or do you want to tell me what you were doing to me?”

His hands twitched at his sides.

You could feel it—the war inside him. Guilt, hunger, restraint. And under all of it, the ache.

“Go on, James,” you whispered, using his real name like a secret. “Tell me. What do you like?”

His head dropped forward, forehead nearly touching yours.

A beat passed.

Then another.

And then—

“I want you on top,” he breathed, voice ragged. “I want you to sit on my face and ride it until your legs give out.”

Your eyes fluttered closed for half a second.

That was not the answer you expected first.

His voice deepened, like now that he’d started, he couldn’t stop.

“I want you on your knees, begging. I want to fuck you from behind so deep you forget your own name. I want to feel you come around me and not stop. I want to stay inside you.”

His breath hitched. His hands were fisting at his sides.

“And when I’m done, when you can’t even move anymore—I want to come in you and keep coming until you’re full of me. Until it’s dripping out of you.”

Your thighs clenched instinctively.

Your nails curled tighter into his chest.

And your voice, still low, still teasing—but now breathy, just slightly—said:

“Damn, Barnes. That’s a whole lot of filth for someone who didn’t even know what edging was last month.”

Your last teasing whisper hadn’t even left your lips before Bucky moved.

One second you were pinned between him and the wall, and the next, his hands were on your hips, gripping tight. Then the ground disappeared beneath your feet.

You gasped as he lifted you—easily, effortlessly—hauling you against his chest like you weighed nothing.

“Jesus, Barnes—” you started, but his mouth was already on yours.

It wasn’t a kiss. It was a claim.

Hot, rough, needy—his lips crashed into yours with the force of every filthy thought, every sleepless night, every moment he’d spent imagining your mouth, your body, your sound. His teeth scraped your bottom lip. His tongue pushed past yours. There was no hesitation. Just heat.

You moaned into it, hands threading into his hair, pulling him closer even as he carried you down the hall.

Your back hit the wall once, then the doorframe, and then—

The bed.

He dropped you onto it like a man starved for touch. The mattress creaked beneath you, sheets rumpled and cool against your skin as you propped yourself up on your elbows, breathless and grinning.

Bucky stood at the edge of the bed, looking at you like you were his undoing.

You tilted your head, voice low and mocking.

“Is this the part where you get all commanding, Sergeant? Or are you gonna make me do the work?”

His jaw clenched. He stepped forward. Then dropped his weight onto the bed, climbing over you, hands already at your thighs, dragging you down the sheets toward him.

“I told you not to push,” he growled.

You smiled, voice syrup-sweet.

“And I told you I liked pushing.”

His hands slipped under your shirt, yanking it over your head in one smooth motion. Your bra was next, tossed aside without ceremony. He ducked down immediately, mouth hot against your collarbone, then lower—kissing, biting, devouring.

You gasped, head falling back as his mouth found your breast, tongue circling your nipple before he sucked it between his lips, hard.

And still—you teased.

“Careful, Barnes. Gonna make a mess before you even get inside me.”

He looked up at you.

Eyes wild, hungry, dark.

And then he dragged your jeans down—fast, rough, like he didn’t have the patience for anything else—and crawled up between your legs, pressing his body to yours until there was nothing between you anymore.

“Then shut up,” he growled, grinding against you, his cock thick and hard through his jeans.

“Make me,” you whispered, pulling him down by the collar.

And he did.

His mouth was everywhere—jaw, neck, breasts, stomach—kissing, biting, groaning like he couldn’t get enough, like he didn’t know where to start because he wanted all of you.

Then he pulled back, breathing hard, eyes raking over your body like a man finally allowed to look.

“Get up,” he rasped, voice dark and thick with want.

You blinked up at him, dazed and grinning. “What?”

He sat back on his heels, hands gripping your thighs.

“I said get up,” he repeated. “I want you on my face.”

Your breath caught.

Dead serious.

You didn’t question it. Didn’t tease.

Instead, your lips curved into a slow smile as you shifted, sitting up, climbing over him with fluid, easy confidence.

“As you wish, Sergeant.”

That name hit him like a punch to the chest.

His hands guided you—firm, reverent, needy—until your knees were braced on either side of his head, your body hovering just above his lips.

He looked up at you like a man who’d prayed for this moment.

And then?

He pulled you down.

No hesitation.

Just mouth.

Hot, wet, desperate—he groaned the second he tasted you, tongue already lapping through your folds, lips sealing around your clit like he was starving.

Your head tipped back with a sharp gasp, fingers flying into his hair as your hips bucked against his mouth.

“Fuck—Bucky—”

He growled in response, hands gripping your ass, holding you down, keeping you there.

You rocked against him instinctively, gasping as his tongue flicked and circled, licked and sucked. He was moaning into you, mumbling things you couldn’t even make out—except for one word that hit clear, over and over:

“Mine.”

You looked down at him, eyes wild, mouth open.

His eyes met yours.

Dark. Glazed. Possessed.

You could see the man he used to be—the soldier, the weapon—but right now?

Right now he was just yours.

And you were his.

You couldn’t stop moving.

Couldn’t stop grinding against his mouth, against his tongue, the pleasure slamming through you in waves, harder and sharper with every flick, every suck.

Bucky moaned beneath you, the sound filthy, shameless, needy—like your taste was saving him from something dark and deep and buried.

His hands held you tighter, guiding your hips as you rocked against his mouth, your thighs trembling around his head.

“Fuck—fuck—” you gasped, one hand gripping the headboard, the other buried in his thick, messy hair. “Don’t stop—don’t you dare stop—”

He didn’t.

If anything, he doubled down—lips sealing tighter, tongue working you harder, sloppier, his groans vibrating against your clit like a live wire.

He wanted this.

He wanted to suffocate on you, drown in you.

And you gave it to him.

Because when you looked down, saw those glassy, desperate blue eyes staring up at you, pleading for more, there was no holding back.

The coil snapped.

Your whole body locked as the orgasm ripped through you, sharp and searing, your hips jerking uncontrollably against his mouth.

“Bucky—” you cried, voice cracking, thighs clamping around his head as you came—hard.

He didn’t let go.

He held you there, arms wrapped around your thighs, mouth still working you through it, licking and sucking every shudder, every twitch, like it was a gift.

You collapsed forward, one hand braced on the headboard behind his head, the other still clutching his hair, your body wrecked, shaking, soaked.

And when you finally opened your eyes—chest heaving, heart pounding—you looked down at him.

His lips were wet, chin glistening, eyes blown wide with hunger.

He looked like he could live there. Like he’d happily die there.

And all he said, voice hoarse and full of worship:

“You taste like heaven.”

You were still trembling when he sat up behind you, hands stroking your thighs, your hips, slow and reverent like he needed to remember the feel of you.

“You good?” he rasped, voice wrecked from moaning into you.

You nodded, barely catching your breath, lips curving into a slow smile.

“Still waiting for that doggystyle fantasy to come true, Sergeant.”

That was all it took.

He growled low in his throat, grabbing your hips, flipping you effortlessly onto your stomach. Before you could even laugh, his hands slid under your body and lifted your hips high, chest pressed down into the mattress.

You moaned, the stretch in your spine perfect, delicious.

He leaned over you, his breath hot at your ear.

“This how you want it?”

You arched your back, ass pushing against him. “This is how you want it.”

He growled again—low, deep, possessive.

“Exactly how I want it.”

Then you felt him—his cock, thick and hot, dragging through your soaked folds, the head catching on your entrance.

He didn’t push in yet.

Just rubbed, slow, deliberate, teasing.

You whimpered, tried to push back.

He gripped your hips tighter.

“Not yet,” he murmured. “You’re gonna feel all of it.”

Then—he pushed in.

Slow at first, but deep, the stretch burning in the best way as he filled you, inch by thick, pulsing inch.

“Fuck—” you moaned, hands clutching the sheets as he bottomed out.

He held still once he was fully inside.

Like he was savoring it.

Like this—being buried in you, your body wrapped tight around his—was what he’d been starving for.

Then he moved.

Pulled out halfway.

And slammed back in.

You cried out, the sound muffled by the sheets as he started thrusting, each snap of his hips harder, deeper, rougher than the last.

His hands gripped your waist like you were his anchor.

His rhythm brutal, relentless.

He fucked you like he meant it—like he’d dreamed of this for weeks, like every fantasy had led to this.

You were gasping, moaning, clawing at the bed.

“Look at you,” he panted behind you. “So fucking tight—taking me so good.”

You couldn’t speak.

Could barely breathe.

And when his hand snaked around to rub your clit, you screamed his name.

He didn’t let up.

Just pounded into you harder, faster, until the sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, filthy and loud and perfect.

He was so deep in you.

Deeper than anyone had ever been—physically, yes, but also fully. Like this was where he belonged. Like this was where you belonged.

His hips rolled, the angle perfect, his cock dragging against that sweet spot inside you with every rough, claiming thrust.

And his voice—low, wrecked, filthy—poured right into your ear.

“You like that, sweetheart?” he growled. “You like being on your knees for me?”

You whimpered, nodding, voice breathless.

“Yes, Bucky—fuck—so much.”

He leaned over you, chest flush to your back, still moving inside you—slow now, torturously deep, like he wanted to feel every pulse of you clenching around him.

“Yeah, you do,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “My good girl. So fuckin’ wet for me. You were dripping on my face—you know that?”

You moaned, your body shaking, ass pushing back into him.

“I saw you,” he said, his rhythm stuttering just to drag the next thrust out longer. “When I told you to sit on my face? You didn’t even hesitate. You just gave it to me.”

You gasped as his hand slid down your back, curving over your ass, squeezing.

“And now you’re letting me fuck you like this,” he went on. “Taking every inch like a good little cocksleeve. You want me to fill you up, don’t you?”

You shuddered, squeezing around him so tight he groaned.

“Yes,” you panted, shameless. “Fuck, Bucky—fill me up—please—I want it.”

He slammed into you harder, rhythm picking up again, fast and unforgiving.

“That’s it,” he growled. “That’s what I like. You begging. You dripping. You mine.”

You cried out, bracing yourself against the mattress as he drove into you faster now, hand slipping beneath to rub your clit again.

“Say it,” he hissed. “Tell me who you belong to.”

“You,” you choked. “You, Bucky—I’m yours.”

He groaned deep in his throat, thrusts faltering for a beat like the words knocked something loose in him.

Then he grabbed your hair, gently but firm, pulling you up just enough to kiss your neck—bite it—then whisper:

“When I come, I’m gonna stay inside you. Gonna keep you full for hours. Walk around dripping with me.”

You whined, thighs shaking, the pressure building again—faster, sharper.

“Bucky—please—”

His voice was a growl, low and thick with promise.

“Come for me.”

And you did.

Hard.

Your whole body clenched around him, your scream muffled by the sheets as the orgasm ripped through you, sharp and messy, your walls fluttering around his cock.

Your moan was still echoing when he grabbed your waist, pulling you back—up, off the bed, into his lap.

You barely had time to gasp before you were straddling him, his chest pressed flush to your back, his mouth at your neck, and his cock still inside you.

“Not done,” he growled, arms locking around your waist. “Not until I come in you.”

Then he thrust up into you—hard, deep, devastating.

You cried out, your body already overstimulated, every thrust hitting that perfect spot inside you all over again. His hands were everywhere—gripping your hips, spreading your thighs wider, keeping you open for him as he pounded up from beneath you with bruising rhythm.

“Fuck—Bucky—” you whimpered, hands flying back to clutch at his hair, his shoulder, anything.

He was relentless.

Grunting with each thrust, hips snapping up into you, his breath ragged against your ear.

“Feel that?” he rasped. “How deep I am? How you’re still so fuckin’ tight?”

You nodded, moaning, body jerking with every thrust.

“You’re gonna take it,” he hissed. “Every drop. I’m not pullin’ out—you hear me? I’m comin’ inside you.”

“Yes,” you gasped, barely able to speak. “Please—Bucky—fill me up—”

He groaned, deeper than before, thrusts losing rhythm, his grip bruising on your hips as his body started to shake.

“Fuckfuckfuck—gonna come—”

One last thrust—brutal, final—and he buried himself in you, arms tightening, head thrown back as he came hard, deep inside you.

You felt it.

Hot.

Thick.

Flooding you as he groaned your name, holding you tight in his lap, still pulsing inside you.

And he didn’t let go.

Didn’t move.

Just stayed there—buried—chest rising against your back, his breath warm at your neck, whispering,

“You’re mine.”

You collapsed forward onto the bed, body still twitching with aftershocks, breath ragged and uneven. Bucky followed, slow and heavy, staying close, still inside you for a moment longer like he couldn’t stand to let you go just yet.

Eventually, he pulled out with a soft groan.

You whimpered at the loss, hips squirming on instinct.

He stayed behind you for a second, hovering—eyes locked on the way his release slowly dripped out of you, sliding between your thighs and onto the sheets.

You could feel him watching.

You tilted your head back with a lazy grin. “If you’re gonna stare like that, at least have the decency to offer a towel.”

He huffed a rough laugh—half-exhausted, half-stunned. “Sorry. Just... didn’t wanna forget what that looks like.”

You stretched like a cat, all smug satisfaction and afterglow. “Yeah, well. Take a picture next time, Barnes.”

He leaned down, kissed your shoulder—soft, slow, grateful—then flopped beside you, dragging the sheet up over your tangled bodies.

His arm wrapped around your waist, warm and heavy.

Neither of you spoke for a minute.

Just the sound of your breathing slowing. Your bodies cooling.

Then he murmured, voice quiet against your skin, “You’re in my head now.”

You smiled, eyes drifting shut.

“Good,” you whispered. “Took you long enough.”

You lay there, tangled together in the warm quiet, your body still thrumming, skin slick and flushed. Bucky’s arm was wrapped around your waist, his breath slow against the back of your neck, lips occasionally brushing your shoulder like he wasn’t even conscious of doing it.

You grinned.

Couldn’t help it.

“So…” you said, voice casual. “How long you been jerking off to me, Barnes?”

He froze.

You felt the heat bloom off him before he even said a word.

“Don’t.”

Your grin widened. “What? It’s a fair question. Based on how fast you devoured me, I’m guessing… at least a month?”

He groaned into your shoulder. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m right,” you countered. “Don’t think I didn’t catch the way you almost cried when I said ‘as you wish, Sergeant.’ You’ve been unwell.”

He muttered something unintelligible and buried his face in your neck.

You rolled to face him, propped on one elbow, smirking as you traced a line down his chest.

“So, tell me,” you purred. “Now that you’ve got a taste... what do you want to do to me next time?”

His throat bobbed.

You waited.

“I dunno,” he mumbled.

“Oh, you know.” Your nails lightly scratched his ribs. “Come on, be brave. Tell me.”

He grumbled. “You’re gonna use it against me.”

“Correct,” you said sweetly. “Now spill.”

He exhaled slowly, then muttered:

“...Sixty-nine.”

You grinned. “Classic. What else?”

He covered his eyes with one hand. “Breeding.”

Your eyebrows lifted, delight flashing in your eyes. “Oh? Really leaned into the ‘stuff me full, Sarge’ angle, huh?”

“Shut up.”

“I won’t, actually,” you laughed, leaning closer, lips brushing his ear. “Anything else you wanna act out, Barnes? Any other dirty little fantasies you been keeping locked up?”

He hesitated.

Longer this time.

Then—reluctantly, quietly:

“...Roleplay.”

You blinked.

Then broke into a slow, wicked grin. “Okay, now this I need to hear.”

“Nope,” he said immediately, trying to roll away. “That’s enough honesty for one night—”

You climbed on top of him, straddling his hips, pinning him down with a devilish smile. “Tell me if I need to show up next time in a pencil skirt and glasses, or if I should wear that SHIELD catsuit and call you ‘Sir.’”

His eyes snapped open.

And you knew.

You gasped. “Oh my god. You have a thing for the whole ‘secret agent mission gone sideways’ scenario, don’t you?”

He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Please stop.”

“You want me to cuff you to a chair and interrogate you,” you went on gleefully. “Or, wait—no—you want to interrogate me.”

“I’m begging.”

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “You want me in red lipstick and a wiretap, don’t you?”

“I’m never telling you anything again.”

You leaned down, lips brushing his.

“I’m gonna make all your little roleplay dreams come true,” you whispered.

“Kill me now,” he muttered.

“Nope. Gotta save your energy. You’re not done with me yet.”

You grinned, smug and sated, curling down against his chest, eyes closing as his arm wrapped around you again.

And beneath your cheek, you felt him smile.

[blackpar8]

we might be getting another beefy bucky for doomsday y’all😍

[nyletac]

Toxic Heat

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Agent! Female! Reader

Summary: While waiting for the extraction team after a successful mission, Bucky leaves you and runs into a greenhouse room in the mission building with strange plants. Accidentally breathing in the gas from the plants he returns to you, but something is off.

Warnings/Tags: 18+, Smut, Cursing, Fingering, Rough Sex, Edging, Enemies to lovers, Hormone inducing plant, Vaginal sex, Multiple orgasms, Aftercare, Super Intense (my god this is so dirty.)

Word Count: 6.4k

The mission had been straightforward at first: infiltrate the abandoned research outpost, gather intel, and get out before anyone noticed.

But when the team’s extraction was delayed, you and Bucky found yourselves trapped inside the building’s dusty corridors, waiting for backup.

After the constant, usual bickering and insults, he left and you heard his footsteps retreat down the hall as he scouted ahead, his metal arm clanking softly with each step. You stayed close to the cracked wall, nervously fingering the strap of your gear. Wishing there were windows to bring in any source of light throughout the creepy dim building.

Suddenly, Bucky’s footsteps stopped. Silence swallowed the hallway. Slight worry grew over you, as you take a look down the hallway, however, no sight or sound of him to be found.

When you finally heard footsteps again, you quickly peaked your head past the doorway down the hallway. Seeing Bucky approach, his movements were slower, heavier. His dark eyes held something unreadable — a flicker of distraction mixed with a strange heat.

You noticed the sweat beading at his temple, the way his breath came a little too fast, a little too shallow.

“Bucky?” Your voice curious, concern knitting your brows.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned against the doorway, jaw clenched tight, hand pressing over his mouth as if trying to catch his breath.

Your heart pounded. You couldn’t just stand there.

Carefully, you took a few steps closer, eyes scanning his face for any sign of injury or distress. “Are you hurt? You don’t look well.”

Your fingers hovered uncertainly near his arm before gently laying it on the flushed skin.

The contact made him flinch, a sharp intake of breath escaping his lips, and his whole body tensed under your touch.

He looked at you, confusion clouding his dark eyes before darting his eyes away. “I… I don’t know what’s happening,” he admitted quietly, voice strained. “I can’t… focus.”

You bit your lip, cheeks burning with a mix of worry and something else you couldn’t name.

Despite your hesitation, your fingers lingered, tracing the line of his jaw slowly.

His heavy breathing filled the tight space between you.

He wasn’t the bold, direct, and frankly asshole of a man you’d expected to come back— he was confused, vulnerable in a way that made your heart ache.

And yet, beneath that confusion simmered something primal, waiting to break free.

You swallowed hard, fighting the urge to pull back as Bucky’s gaze locked with yours—dark, confused, and somehow raw in a way you’d never seen before. His chest rose and fell rapidly, breath hitching like he was struggling to steady it.

“Do you need to sit down?” you offered softly, voice barely above a whisper. You hated how your own hands trembled, but you couldn’t just leave him like this.

Bucky shook his head slowly, jaw still tight. “No,” he said, voice rough, “I just… need a moment.”

You edged closer, feeling the warmth radiating off his body, the subtle tremor running through his muscles. Your fingers brushed again against his skin—this time along the softer flesh of the inside of his wrist, inspecting his seemingly pulsing veins.

He flinched again, that sharp intake of breath turning deeper, ragged. His eyes fluttered closed for a second, turning his face away from you as if trying to contain something he didn’t understand.

“Bucky…” Your voice softened, uncertainty threading through every word. “What’s going on?”

He opened his eyes, dark pools swirling with confusion and frustration. “I don’t know,” he said roughly, voice breaking just slightly. “I feel… wrong. Hot. Like I’m… burning up from the inside.”

You bit your lip, heart clenching. The man who is feared, who’s a deadly super soldier, was now trembling under your touch, vulnerable and raw.

Without thinking, your hand moved to rest flat against his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat beneath your palm.

His breathing hitched, eyes darkening as if the simple contact overwhelmed him. “Don’t…” he growled out, voice hoarse.

The room seemed to shrink around you both, heavy with unspoken tension. You wanted to pull away, to respect his boundaries, but your body betrayed you—drawn to him like a moth to flame.

“Bucky,” you whispered, “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Your palm pressed against his chest, trying to calm the wild thumping of his heart. Bucky’s breath was ragged, uneven, like he was barely holding himself together. His dark eyes flicked toward you, filled with confusion—and something raw, unfiltered.

He growled softly, a frustrated sound. “I ran into some kind of room in the west wing with a bunch of plants. They were releasing some kind of gas. I don’t know what it’s doing to me, but—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. “—it’s making me feel things. Things I don’t like.”

You raised an eyebrow, and try to lighten the mood. “Oh great. Just what I needed: Barnes, the grumpy tin man, suddenly turned into a hot mess.” You say softly, rolling your eyes with a slight smile

He scowled but didn’t deny it. “Keep it up, and I might just knock that smug smile off your face.”

“Yeah, yeah. Not like this you won’t” you teased, voice light despite the tension.

Bucky took a deep, shuddering breath. “Don’t tempt me. Besides, this isn’t a joke. I don’t know how to control it, and I don’t want you getting involved.”

You stepped closer, still wary but unable to look away. “Since when did you care what I think?”

His eyes darkened, and he took a half-step towards the other side of the room, like you might be contagious. “Since this gas has me all messed up and I’m not sure I’m still me.” He growls out

You bit your lip, trying not to let your cheeks betray how much the sight of him like this was affecting you.

“Look,” he said, voice low and rough, “I understand that we’re partnered up for this mission, but—” His voice cracked slightly, “right now… I need you to just stay out of it. Or maybe just don’t make it worse.”

You raised your hands in mock surrender. “Fine. But only because I’m curious what’ll happen next.” Not sliding in the tid-bit that you’re still extremely worried for him no matter how aggravating he may be or how many times he’s insulted you back at the avengers tower.

Bucky’s glare was sharp, but something softer flickered beneath it before he turned away, trying to hide the vulnerability that scared him.

Bucky’s back was stiff as a board as he leaned against an abandoned table in the room, jaw clenched tight, but the rapid rise and fall of his chest gave him away. The gas wasn’t just messing with his head—it was twisting something deeper, something primal he clearly didn’t want to admit.

Without a word, he suddenly stepped closer, the heat radiating off him intense and raw. His dark eyes locked onto yours with a sharpness that made your breath catch.

Then, almost abruptly, his hand reached out and grabbed your wrist—his grip firm but not cruel.

His voice came low and rough, like gravel scraping over steel. “You don’t get it. This gas… it’s messing with me. Making me feel things I shouldn’t.”

You blinked, caught off guard, heart pounding.

He swallowed hard, eyes darkening as if fighting to hold himself back. “I don’t want you involved. Hell, I don’t want anyone involved. Especially not you.”

You stepped back slightly, wary but steady. “Just cut deeper why don’t you.” You say dripping with sarcasm.

Bucky’s jaw tightened even more. Standing in silence very clearly thinking something through despite the haze he’s under. “I feel like I’m starting to lose control—and you’re the one thing that’s driving me crazy.”

His breath hitched. “I don’t want this. I don’t want to want you.”

Your cheeks flushed but you didn’t pull away.

He hesitated for a moment, then leaned in just enough for you to feel his breath on your skin.

“Don’t make me lose it,” he warned, voice rough and low.

The closeness of his face, feeling the hotness of his breath fanning over your skin, the tone of his voice. You can’t help but to begin breathing heavily. Despite you and Bucky’s mockery, insults, and arguing, you can’t help but be affected by how he’s acting towards you right now. Your eyes scan over him as you fail to resist the squeezing of your thighs and the feeling of molten heat pool in your stomach.

You notice his nostrils flare and his eyes close, inhaling deeply as he lets out a low groan. His eyes open and burned into yours, fierce and unyielding, but underneath there was a raw vulnerability that made your chest tighten. He walks closer towards you, making you back up until your back hits the cold concrete wall. The tension between you wasn’t just the usual snark or competition anymore—it was something sharper, hotter, dangerous.

Bucky closed the last few inches and pressed his palm flat against the wall beside your head, trapping you gently but firmly. His metal fingers brushed lightly against your temple, and a flicker of something desperate crossed his face.

“You don’t know what this is doing to me,” he muttered, voice thick with frustration and something darker. “I’m not… me right now. And I don’t want to hurt you.”

You swallowed hard, nerves sparking but your gaze steady. “You won’t.”

He swallowed again, chest rising and falling faster now, like every breath was a fight.

Then, almost reluctantly, his hand found yours—fingers curling around yours, cool against your skin but firm, possessive.

“I’m warning you,” he breathed, his voice dropping lower, “if you let me, I might not going to be able stop.”

His gaze flicked down to your lips, then back up, heavy with unspoken promises and desperate need.

You felt your heart hammer in your chest, caught between fear and the undeniable pull drawing you closer to him.

Bucky’s grip tightened around your fingers, a low growl rumbling deep in his throat. His dark eyes searched your face like he was looking for permission—and maybe begging for it too, though his pride wouldn’t let him say so.

“I don’t want this,” he snarled softly, voice rough and raw, “but I’m losing the fight.”

His breath hitched, hot and ragged against your skin. The heat radiating off him was suffocating—an almost tangible force pulling you closer, burning away the space between.

You wanted to pull back, wanted to remind him that you weren’t sure what this was either, that this was the opposite of professional, opposite of what you two were—but something in his expression held you fast, unsteady and trembling.

His metal hand slid from your fingers to your wrist, then higher, tracing the delicate skin of your forearm. Every inch was electric under his touch, like you were both alive on a knife’s edge.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered hoarsely, voice thick with frustration, “and I will. But if you don’t…”

He closed the distance suddenly, lips brushing a harsh, breathless kiss against yours—rough and demanding, like he was trying to ground himself through the contact.

Your breath caught, shyness warred with a fierce, blooming heat deep inside you.

Bucky’s hands framed your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones as if trying to memorize every line, every trembling breath.

“I’m scared,” he admitted, voice low and vulnerable beneath the roughness. “Scared I won’t be able to pull back.” You feel him physically trying to restrain himself from pulling himself closer to you.

You swallowed, heart pounding louder than your thoughts.

“No,” you whispered, voice soft but sure. “Don’t pull back.”

His lips instantly found yours, crashing into your lips, with a wild insatiable hunger. There was no gentleness in it, just raw need and the taste of restraint shattering. He gripped your waist, his hands big and calloused, roughly pulling you flush against his body like he needed you to stay anchored to the ground.

You gasped into him, the sound catching in your throat as you felt the heat of him—every line of muscle, every tremble in his body that betrayed how hard he was fighting to stay in control.

“I shouldn’t want this,” he growled, voice rough against your lips, “not with you… not like this.”

But his hands didn’t stop. One slid up under your shirt, skimming over your ribs, fingertips dragging goosebumps in their wake. His touch was desperate, reverent, like he needed to memorize your body just to keep from coming undone.

“I didn’t even like you,” he muttered hoarsely, forehead resting against yours, breath ragged. “You always ran your mouth, always got under my skin…”

Your hands clutched at the front of his tactical shirt, heart pounding against your ribs. “You didn’t like me?” you managed, breathless.

“I hated how much I noticed you,” he growled. “How I couldn’t stop watching the way you moved… how you looked at me like you saw past the metal and my history.”

You whimpered as his fingers slipped beneath your waistband, teasing the skin just above your underwear. His touch wasn’t tentative—it was firm, claiming. Possessive. But there was a tremble in it, like he wasn’t sure if he was about to worship you or ruin you.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered again, voice cracking with restraint. “Please.”

But you couldn’t. All you could do was look up at him, seeing him, pieces of hair falling in his face, his dark eyes staring into yours and let out a soft needy whine.

That was all he needed.

His mouth moved to your neck, kissing and biting, the sting softened by the heat of his tongue. His hand slid into your pants, cupping you firmly. The gasp that tore from your throat only made him press closer, lips brushing your ear.

“Fuck, you’re warm,” he groaned. “So soft…”

His fingers dipped lower, teasing over your folds, dragging a moan from you that made his grip falter—like your voice alone was a match to dry gasoline.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he muttered, pressing his forehead to your shoulder as his fingers slipped inside you, slow but thick and deep. “Don’t even know if this is the gas anymore… or just you.”

You could barely breathe, body melting into his as he thrust his fingers slow and deep, watching your every reaction like he was starving for it. He was so careful despite the desperation coiled in his muscles—his touches growing rougher, but still holding back that last thread of restraint.

His fingers, curling just enough to make your knees shake. You gasped, a tremor running through your thighs as you clutched at the front of his suit, but Bucky didn’t rush—not yet.

He growled under his breath, forehead still pressed to your shoulder, lips ghosting against your skin as his fingers dragged slick and steady inside you.

“Goddamn…” he breathed, voice broken with awe and frustration. “You’re driving me out of my fucking mind.”

You whimpered, your breath shallow. “Bucky…”

His name made him shudder.

He pulled his hand away too soon, and you let out a small sound of protest. Bucky met your eyes then—completely unguarded. His pupils were blown wide, his lips slightly parted, sweat shining along his jaw.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered. “I’m hanging on by a thread.”

You weren’t sure if that was a plead, command or a threat.

Then, you could feel the thick bulge of him straining against his pants, grinding against your soaked core through the fabric of your clothes.

“Feel that?” he rasped into your ear, rutting against you. “That’s what you’re doing to me. And I haven’t even gotten inside you yet.”

Your breath caught. His words lit a fire in your belly, made your thighs clench, made you ache.

His hand slipped down again, running two fingers over your clit.

“Fuck. You’re soaking.”

The curse slipped through his teeth like a prayer as your eyes roll back at the heavenly friction of his hand.

You whine once more as he brought his fingers up and stared at them—coated in your wetness—then met your eyes again as he sucked them slowly into his mouth.

Your legs nearly gave out. “Bucky…” you mutter.

“I’m not gonna fuck you yet,” he said, voice rough and tight like it hurt to say it. “Not until you’re begging for it.”

You whined, hips rolling instinctively toward him, chasing friction.

“Oh, you like that?” he murmured darkly, hand sliding between you again, rubbing slow, heavy circles over your clit. “The mouthy little agent who never shuts up… can’t even form a sentence now.”

You were panting, your body hypersensitive to every stroke, every drag of his rough voice.

“I want to ruin that attitude,” he growled. “Make you forget how to talk. Make you cry.”

His fingers dipped inside you again, thrusting slow and deep, each stroke deliberate and angled just right. You clenched around him, a soft cry leaving your lips, and he chuckled low and sharp in your ear.

“There it is,” he whispered. “That’s what I wanted. So fucking tight around my fingers already.”

His metal hand slid up your shirt, palming your breast through your bra, thumb flicking across your nipple with just enough pressure to make your back arch. “You gonna fall apart just from this?” he taunted, voice husky. “We haven’t even started yet.”

“Bucky—” you gasped.

“No,” he cut in, hot breath against your neck. “Not yet. You don’t get to come until I say.”

Your head hit the wall behind you with a soft thud, pleasure cresting inside you—too much, too slow, not enough.

Bucky’s mouth moved to your jaw, your throat, licking and biting as his fingers fucked you slow, precise, dragging you closer to the edge and pulling you back again and again.

“You think I don’t see the way you look at me?” he whispered. “Like you hate me. But underneath it? You wanted this. You wanted me.”

Your moan betrayed you.

He grinned against your throat, then sank his teeth into the delicate skin there—not enough to hurt, just enough to make you gasp. His hand never stopped moving, never gave you what you needed all the way. He was relentless, teasing, every inch of him vibrating with tension and barely held control.

“I could keep you like this for hours,” he muttered. “Desperate. Soaking wet. Shaking.”

He dragged his fingers out of you and pressed them between your lips.

“Taste how sweet you are,” he said roughly. “And tell me you don’t want me.”

Your mouth opened before you could stop yourself, and the taste of your own need sent heat rushing straight to your core.

Bucky growled. “Fuck, that’s it. That’s what I wanted.”

He pushed his hips into yours again, the thick, throbbing heat of him pressing right against your clit through the fabric.

“You ready?” he asked darkly. “Because once I’m inside you, I’m not stopping.”

You were trembling beneath him, body pinned to the wall, soaked and aching. Every nerve ending buzzed under the weight of his mouth, his hands, his voice—dragging you to the edge, over and over, without mercy.

And still… he hadn’t taken you.

Until now.

Bucky’s jaw flexed like he was still trying to fight it—but the look in his eyes told you he was past the point of no return.

“I told myself I wouldn’t,” he growled, lips ghosting over yours. “Told myself I could ride it out. Wait for backup. Do the right thing.”

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours, his hips grinding against you in a slow, punishing circle. You felt him—thick, hard, straining inside the confines of his pants—and your breath hitched.

“But I can’t fucking think straight,” he whispered, almost like it hurt. “Not when you’re this wet. This soft. Looking at me like you’d let me break you open.”

You didn’t say a word. You couldn’t. The air was thick with your shared breath, hot and humid, and your voice had long since abandoned you.

He slid your pants down, low enough for you to shimmy and step out of them. He reached down, undid his belt with shaking hands, and freed himself—thick and heavy and flushed, the head already leaking. The sight of it made your thighs clench instinctively.

Bucky groaned at the sight of you. “Fuck, look at you. So shy all the time, but now…” he leaned towards you, grabbed your thigh and wrapped it around his waist. He pushed your soaked underwear to the side, lined himself up and paused, metal hand gripping your thigh, holding you open, holding you still.

“Last chance,” he rasped. “You want me?”

You look up at him with pleading eyes and a whine, “please, Bucky….”

That was all it took.

He thrust forward in one deep, brutal stroke,

burying himself inside you to the hilt. You cried out, nails digging into his arms as your body stretched to take him.

“Shit,” he gritted through clenched teeth, eyes screwed shut. “So fucking tight. You feel—God—you feel unreal.”

He held still for a beat, shaking from the effort not to lose it too fast. But you clenched around him, and he groaned low in his throat, head falling to your shoulder.

Then he started to move.

Each thrust was deep, rough, and controlled—but just barely. He was shaking with it, like he couldn’t believe how good it felt, like every time he slammed into you it pulled a piece of him loose.

“You like it rough, sweetheart?” he growled against your ear.

But you were already gone—moaning, head back against the wall, gasping as your body met his rhythm instinctively. You give a messy nod.

“Yeah,” Bucky snarled, gripping your ass and lifting you a little higher so he could drive in deeper, your leg not wrapped around his waist barely touching the ground. “You take me so fucking good.”

The sound of skin slapping echoed off the walls, the wet slick of your arousal making each brutal thrust louder, messier.

“You think I don’t see you?” he grunted, voice ragged. “Always biting your lip around me, looking away. Playing innocent. But you’re not.”

His pace picked up, hips slamming into yours harder now, deeper. “You want this. You’ve always wanted this.”

“Bucky—” you whimpered, voice cracking.

“Say it,” he growled. “Say you want me.”

“I want you,” you gasped, clinging to him.

He cursed viciously, his control unraveling at the sound of your voice.

“Fuck—I’m not gonna last—” he bit out, slamming in deeper with each thrust. “You feel too good—too tight—I’ve never—”

He cut himself off with a broken groan, his lips crashing against yours in a searing kiss, swallowing your moans as he fucked you harder, rougher. Your body was shaking, teetering right at the edge, and he could feel it.

“Come for me,” he commanded, voice thick and guttural. “Now.”

And with one last, brutal thrust—he hit the spot that sent you spiraling.

You shattered around him, crying out, trembling as your climax tore through you, soaking him. Bucky followed instantly with a strangled groan, burying himself deep as he came hard, hips jerking, forehead pressed to yours as he gasped your name like a lifeline.

His hips slowed, but only slightly—just enough to ride out his own release as you trembled around him, body slack and twitching in his hold. But he didn’t pull out. He didn’t ease away. He stayed inside you, panting against your neck, every muscle still coiled tight like a predator that hadn’t fed nearly enough.

You whimpered softly as his cock throbbed still-hard inside you, impossibly thick, sensitive—but not softening. Not even a little.

“…You’re still hard,” you breathed, dazed.

Bucky’s shoulders shook with a low, humorless laugh. He dragged his mouth up your throat, tongue catching on the sweat at your collarbone before he murmured, “I know.”

His voice was darker now—gravel scraping over flame—and when he pulled his head back to look at you, his pupils were still blown wide, black swallowing the blue.

“That plant,” he said, panting, “it did something. I don’t feel normal, I—” He gritted his teeth and rolled his hips forward again, slow and grinding.

You moaned, sharp and overstimulated, but it only made him groan. “Still not enough.”

He pulled out just a few inches, dragging his cock against your soaked, sensitive walls—then slammed back in with a low, wrecked sound.

Your body jolted, pleasure colliding with sensitivity, making you gasp. “Bucky—”

“Can’t stop,” he growled. “Can’t. You feel too good. I need more.”

He hooked your other leg up around his waist, spreading you open and lifting you slightly off the ground. The shift in angle drove him deeper, the stretch unbearable, the pressure mounting again despite how recently you'd come. You were already growing slick around him again, your body betraying your mind as it begged for more.

“I should hate you for this,” he whispered against your lips. “You make me insane.”

“Then hate me,” you whispered back, breathless.

He snarled—and then snapped.

His mouth crashed to yours, biting and claiming, tongue dragging over your lips before plunging deep. At the same time, he started to fuck you again—harder than before, frantic and relentless, each thrust punching a moan out of you.

You had no defense anymore. No sharp quips, no witty retorts—just Bucky, inside you, growling your name like a curse and a prayer all at once.

“Gonna keep you like this,” he panted, lips brushing your ear. “Stuffed full of me. Until you can’t walk straight. Until everyone on comms knows what I did to you.”

His words hit you like lightning, heat pooling fast and hard in your gut again.

“You want that?” he murmured, nipping your earlobe. “Want me to ruin you until all you can say is my name?”

You couldn’t speak. You could only cry out, moaning shamelessly as he started slamming into you again—rough, wild, deep. His grip bruised your thighs, his mouth never left your skin, and every thrust sent stars behind your eyes.

“You’re mine right now,” he gritted, pounding into you. “Just mine.”

Your second orgasm hit harder—sharper—your body seizing around him with a cry that echoed through the empty hall. You were pulsing around him, milking him, but this time, Bucky didn’t come.

He just groaned and kept going.

His breath was ragged now, like he was in pain from holding back.

“I’m not done,” he choked out, pressing your back tighter to the wall. “Not until I’ve wrung every fucking sound out of you.”

Then he pulled out, slowly, deliberately—and spun you around.

Your hands hit the wall just in time to catch yourself as he dragged your underwear the rest of the way off. You whimper at the cold concrete pushing against your soft chest. His hands gripped your hips, pulling your ass back toward him—and without pause, he shoved himself back in from behind with a deep, wrecked growl.

You gasped, moaning at the new angle, at how deep he felt this way.

His hand came around to your front again, fingers finding your swollen clit, rubbing in messy circles.

“You’re taking me so fucking well,” he snarled. “Like you were made for me.”

The words made you clench, and he hissed through his teeth, hips stuttering.

“Say it,” he barked. “Tell me you want more.”

“More—” you choked, hands scrambling for purchase against the wall. “Bucky—God—more—”

He slammed into you even harder, punishing now, wrecked with need.

“Good girl,” he growled, voice low.

Your hands braced against the wall, fingers splayed, trying to ground yourself—but Bucky gave you no reprieve.

His thrusts were brutal now, paced with a rhythm that shook through your entire body. Each snap of his hips pushed a cry from your lips, every inch of him stretching you open all over again, slick from your last two orgasms and still somehow burning for more.

You were soaked. Raw. Quivering.

And he was insatiable.

Behind you, Bucky was panting like a man possessed. His forehead dropped to your shoulder for a second, teeth grazing your sweat-slicked skin as his grip on your hips tightened, fingers digging in deep enough to bruise.

“Fucking hell,” he growled, voice wrecked. “I can feel you squeezing me—like you’re trying to pull me deeper.”

You moaned, unable to answer. You weren’t sure there were words anymore—just sensation.

Heat. Pressure. Him.

He slammed into you harder, and your knees buckled, but he caught you—one arm locking around your waist, dragging you up against his chest. Moaning, feeling your body pressed flushed against his. His other hand was still between your legs, fingers working your clit with ruthless precision, flicking and circling until your legs were trembling, your cries coming faster.

“Gonna come again,” he rasped in your ear. “I can feel it. You’re so close, baby. Give it to me.”

His metal hand gripped your throat—slightly tight, just enough to tilt your head, to control you—and he sank his teeth into the curve of your neck as he fucked you harder, faster.

You cried out, your body tipping toward the edge again with dizzying speed, your back arching at the intense pleasure.

“Say it,” he ordered through gritted teeth. “Say you want to come on my cock.”

“Please—Bucky—want it—fuck—I want it, I want it—”

“That’s it,” he hissed. “God, that’s it—gonna make you come so fucking hard—”

You clenched around him, your whole body going taut—and then snapped.

Your climax tore through you like fire, a scream ripping from your throat as your pussy spasmed around him, pulsing, slick, drenching him.

Bucky groaned like it broke him, thrusting deep one last time before he came with a roar—slamming into you to the hilt, cock twitching as he spilled inside, hot and thick, filling you to overflowing.

He held you tight, shuddering, mouth pressed to your shoulder as he rode it out—still pulsing, still deep inside you.

For a moment, everything was quiet—just your panting, the wet sounds of your bodies, and his heart hammering against your back.

Then he finally spoke—voice low, hoarse, almost reverent.

“…Still hate me, sweetheart?”

You let out a breathless, broken laugh against the wall.

“Only when you’re not fucking me like that.”

Bucky chuckled darkly, nuzzling your neck, still buried inside you. “Then I guess I’ll have to keep doing it.”

Bucky’s breathing was still ragged behind you, his broad chest rising and falling against your back. His arms stayed wrapped around your waist, firm but gentle now, as if afraid you’d slip away if he let go.

You both stayed like that for a long moment—pressed together, skin flushed and slick with sweat, the heavy sound of your breathing the only thing filling the silence.

Then, slowly, he eased out of you, hissing softly at the overstimulation. You whimpered, sensitive and sore and still trembling, and he caught you as your knees buckled, guiding you gently to the floor.

The moment your back hit the cold wall, you shivered.

“Shit,” Bucky muttered, voice thick and gravelly. “You okay?”

You looked up at him, lips parted, dazed. “I think so…”

He crouched in front of you, one knee bent, eyes scanning your face—not with lust now, but something softer. Something real. His pupils weren’t as blown out anymore. The sharp edge of heat in them was starting to fade.

And for the first time since all this started, you realized… the gas was wearing off.

You could see it in his body—the subtle way his muscles unclenched, the way his breathing evened, like his senses were slowly coming back under control.

“…Bucky,” you murmured, still catching your breath, “what was that stuff?”

He exhaled hard, dragging a hand back through his damp hair.

“Like I said earlier, there was a room. Down the hall. Some kind of overgrown greenhouse or lab, I don’t know.” His voice was quieter now, more grounded. “I barely stepped inside before I started sweating. My head got light, and then everything started to burn. My skin, my blood… my cock.”

You flushed, throat bobbing as your eyes flicked down between you.

He noticed. His jaw tightened.

“I didn’t know what was happening,” he added, guilt creeping into his tone. “Didn’t understand why I was reacting like that until I saw you again and I just—”

He broke off, shaking his head like he was angry at himself.

“I’m sorry,” he said, finally. “I shouldn’t’ve touched you. Not like that. Not when I wasn’t thinking straight.”

But you reached out and curled your fingers around his vibranium wrist, grounding him.

“You didn’t force me,” you said softly. “I wanted it. All of it.”

His eyes met yours—sharp, guarded, like he was still waiting for the punchline.

“You sure?” he asked. Not a tease. Just a whisper of vulnerability cracking through the armor.

You gave a breathless laugh, nodding. “Yeah. Pretty sure the three orgasms confirm that.”

That pulled a small, crooked smirk from him—but it didn’t last. His gaze drifted back to where your bare thighs were still spread, slick and flushed, your pants still tangled around one ankle. You were raw, used, full of him.

And still… somehow… the tension wasn’t gone.

“You didn’t hate it,” he murmured, like he was testing the waters.

“No,” you admitted. “And… maybe I don’t hate you as much as I pretend to.”

That surprised him.

He tilted his head, lips parting like he had something to say—but instead, he leaned forward, slowly, giving you the chance to stop him.

You didn’t.

His lips brushed yours, soft this time. Nothing like the devouring heat from earlier. Just a quiet, aching thing. A kiss that said we’re not done—but maybe not just in a physical way.

You kissed him back, fingers curling into his jacket. And when he finally pulled away, his forehead leaned against yours, breath warm across your face.

“I’ll get you cleaned up,” he murmured, voice husky again, but this time with gentleness rather than hunger.

You nodded, legs still shaky. “Yeah. I… don’t think I can stand yet.”

That made him chuckle, low and rough.

“You won’t be walking straight for a while.”

You smacked his chest weakly, and he grinned. It was the first time you’d ever really seen him smile—not that tight, sarcastic twist, but something real.

And just like that… something had shifted.

The lines that used to keep you on opposite sides of every room were gone—burned away by sweat, heat, and the way his hands had held you like he was afraid of losing something he didn’t know he wanted.

As he helped you pull your clothes back on, slow and careful, your fingers brushed. You didn’t pull away.

Neither did he.

⊹ ︶⏝⭒ ⊹ ⭒⏝︶ ⊹

By the time the extraction team touched down, the gas was well out of Bucky’s system—but the aftermath lingered on both of you like a second skin.

He still walked close to you. His arm still brushed yours whenever the hallway narrowed. His jacket, slung loosely around your shoulders, smelled like him—warm leather and sweat and something darker, primal, something you’d felt grinding deep inside you less than an hour ago.

Neither of you had said much since.

Not because there wasn’t anything to say—but because the weight of everything that had happened still hummed like a live wire between you.

And when the door to the building finally slammed open and Sam’s voice came over the comms—dry, impatient, and absolutely oblivious—you nearly jumped.

“There you two are,” he said, stepping into view in full gear, eyes flicking from you to Bucky. “Took your sweet time, huh? We were about to call it and let you rot in there.”

Bucky didn’t flinch. He just grunted. “We managed.”

Sam looked at the both of you suspiciously.

Your hair was a mess. Your pants were definitely on inside out, despite your frantic fumbling earlier. Bucky’s shirt clung to him with dried sweat, and his belt was still hanging open under his tactical vest.

And when Sam’s eyes narrowed and slid down to the distinct bite mark blooming just beneath your collarbone, visible even beneath the edge of Bucky’s jacket—

He froze.

Blinked.

And looked back at Bucky. Slowly.

“…Did you fight each other?”

You opened your mouth, panic rising in your throat.

But Bucky—smug bastard—beat you to it.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said coolly, leading the way past Sam without missing a beat. “I won.”

Sam gawked after him. “You won what? An STD?!”

You groaned and followed quickly, cheeks flaming. “Shut up, Wilson.”

“You shut up!” Sam called after you. “I’m gonna have to Lysol the entire jet, aren’t I?!”

Bucky didn’t even blink as he climbed aboard.

You shot him a glare as you slid into the seat across from him, keeping your arms crossed even though his jacket still hung around your shoulders like some ridiculous trophy.

The second Sam stepped in behind you, eyeing the both of you like a disgruntled parent, you tried to school your expression into something neutral.

You failed.

Bucky smirked.

“So,” Sam said, dropping into the pilot’s chair with a sigh. “Either of you wanna tell me why your vitals were going crazy on the monitors for thirty minutes straight?”

“Must’ve been a glitch,” Bucky replied smoothly.

Sam turned, staring at him.

You were biting your lip. Hard.

“A glitch,” Sam repeated flatly.

Bucky shrugged, unbothered. “Must’ve been the plant gas. Messed with my sensors.”

“Oh, I bet it did,” Sam muttered, spinning back to the controls. “God, I’m too old for this.”

The Quinjet engines flared to life.

You glanced at Bucky. He was watching you from under his lashes, jaw tight, one corner of his mouth twitching upward like he was this close to smiling.

You leaned closer, voice just low enough that Sam wouldn’t hear.

“You’re really proud of yourself, aren’t you?”

Bucky’s smile turned wicked.

“You’re the one still wearing my jacket, sweetheart.”

You flushed—and hated how much it thrilled you.

As the jet lifted into the sky, the tension didn’t fade.

It simply shifted.

No longer the tension of enemies circling each other like knives waiting to clash—but the quieter, heavier kind. The kind that simmers under the surface, waiting to boil over again the second you're alone.

And something told you…

This wasn’t over.

Not even close.

[whambamsami]

say please

summary: you weren't supposed to be in this position. especially not with bucky barnes. but now you're burning, and he's on the other side of the door. silent. fighting himself with every breath. he does his best to stay away, until you say his name.

warnings: 18+, swearing, smut, lowkey a little dubcon, be warned! (also mild breeding and praise stuff LMAO)

note: i haven't written anything in so long!!! been dealing with a breakup haha so this is my attempt at a sex pollen fic!!! i don't love the pacing of this, but i've been obsessed with this trope so i wanted to try my hand :) also not proof read! lmk if there's any typos/plot holes!

The air inside was damp and stale. Thick with dust and the scent of old metal. 

“Smells like your room in here,” you muttered, doing your best to distract yourself from the feeling that you’re being watched.

“Cute,” Bucky says dryly, “Just stick close. Try not to get us killed.”

He always did that. Undermined you. Spoke like you didn’t know what you were doing, like you hadn’t wiped the floor with him in hand-to-hand combat since you’d met him. Like you didn’t have the training, the experience, like you didn’t know exactly what the fuck you were doing. 

But you were in an old, abandoned HYDRA base, which you could only assume wasn’t exactly  Bucky’s ideal trip down memory lane. So you clenched your jaw and continued with your scanning.  

You both crept through the ruined hallway, weapons drawn. The flickering of the overhead lights had you gripping your pistol tighter than you’d care to admit. 

The hallway stretched before you. Cracked tile, wires dangling from the ceiling, that same mildew-esque air that made you gag.

“Jesus, they couldn’t afford an interior decorator?” 

It was like you could see him rolling his eyes from behind. 

“They’re war criminals, not the Property Brothers,” he hissed over his shoulder.

“Wow, you know who the Property Brothers are?”

“Just-”, and you’d gotten him riled up enough that he was speaking the tiniest bit louder than he should’ve been, “just stick close, okay?”

“I always stick close,” you muttered, “you’re the one who always runs in like you have something to prove.”

He glanced back at you, lips twitching. “Maybe I do.”

You rolled your eyes. 

But your pulse quickened. 

You hated how much you liked him like this. Snarky. Cocky. Almost… attentive. 

That stupid leather harness, the one that had been added to give him easy access to an extra pistol, that stretched across his broad chest wasn’t really helping either. 

Neither did the way that his eyes met yours in the dark. Like he could hear every mortifying thought he drew out of your traitorous mind. 

As much as he annoyed you, as much as you sniped and bantered and pushed each other, you were partners. There was no one in the world you trusted more in the field. 

That’s why it was so terrifying when you were separated. 

Bucky must’ve tripped a security system, because before either of you could react- 

Clang.

A metal panel dropped, splitting the hall in two. 

And Bucky was gone. 

You hear gears grinding against each other, a pop, a hiss from just above you, and you look up just in time to see something drop from the ceiling. A canister, maybe. 

Gas erupts in front of you, a pale green mist that you breathe in before you can even register what’s happened.

“Shit!”, you gasp, but it’s too late, “Bucky, I breathed in something-”

He was pounding on the metal, screaming your name with more fear in his voice than you’d have ever heard. 

But you didn’t hear him.

Not before everything went black. 

You woke up strapped to a cold chair, wrists and ankles aching against the restraint to no avail, a ball of loose white fabric stuffed so far in your mouth you couldn’t even cry for help. 

Two men dressed in lab coats were standing in front of you, sickly pale like they hadn’t been outside in ages. HYDRA, presumably. The look in their sunken eyes was eccentric, crazed. They were pacing in front of you nervously, murmuring to each other in a language you didn’t understand. German, maybe. 

“...zu hübsch, um es einfach zu töten…” you caught from the taller of the two as they inched closer to you. 

The other, shorter man nodded. “Soll sie zuerst für uns tanzen?”

The first man smiled wickedly, reaching into the pocket of his lab coat, pulling out a syringe filled with a pinkish-purple liquid. He stepped close enough that you could smell his breath, see his yellowed snarl, and flicked the needle as he approached.

He fucking reeked. 

You surged against your restraints, crying out despite your makeshift muzzle. You wanted it, wanted him, nowhere near you.

But you didn’t have much of a choice.  

Ignoring your screams and your desperate attempts to pull away, the man stuck the needle in your neck and pushed, injecting whatever was in that vial directly into your bloodstream. 

You couldn’t fight back, could barely move. It was too late. Whatever HYDRA concoction they’d used on you was already in you. You were probably as good as dead.

But he was close enough. 

So the second he removed that needle, you clenched your jaw to protect your teeth, reared back, and headbutted him as hard as you could. 

You felt the crunch before you heard it. 

The man, if you could call him that, reeled back with a grunt, hand flying to his nose as blood burst through his fingers. 

“Scheiße!” he managed, stumbling back, crashing into a tray of medical instruments that clattered to the floor.

The other man moved toward you in a blur, striking you hard across the face.

Not hard enough to wipe the defiant smile that you wore through the cloth that gagged you. 

“You’ll regret that,” he seethed, voice thickened with whatever accent he had, “You’ll regret that when you’re begging for anything from us-” 

He cut himself off. Looked down. And looked back up at you, disbelief in his eyes like you had anything to do with the red that bloomed through the stark white of his lab coat, bleeding through his stomach. His knees folded in, dropping his body limp to the floor. 

The other man didn’t have time to turn before he met the same fate, lifeless and forgotten on the ground. 

Bucky stood before you, panting, in front of the now-open door, gun still smoking in his vibranium hand. 

He walked past you and pointed his gun at the back of the first man, the one who had injected you with something, and shot once, twice, thrice. For good measure. 

Blood sprayed on the floor. Silence settled in, the only noise in the room was your ragged breath. 

He finally turned to face you.

“Doll”, he murmured. His voice was softer than you’d ever heard it. Raw. Almost panicked. 

He dropped to his knees by the chair, eyes raking over you as he made quick work of your restraints. 

The welt on your cheek made him pause. 

“I’m so sorry, I- “ his hands were trembling, and you weren’t sure if it was from sheer rage or sheer terror, “what did they do to you?”

The moment your wrists were free, you collapsed forward into his chest, clutching that vest like it was a lifeline before you could stop yourself. 

“I don’t-” you try, pushing off of him gently, “I don’t know what they gave me”, and your body is slowly starting to betray you, shaking all over, “Bucky, what is this?” 

His eyes darted over you, seeing the way your limbs had begun to weaken, and started to look around the room. 

The two HYDRA men, bodies strewn on the floor. The empty syringe. The residue of something pinkish-purple still inside.

His blood ran cold. 

You felt him tense up in front of you, saw him suck in a breath, like he wouldn’t let himself believe whatever he’d started to piece together. 

“Bucky…?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again. 

“I’ve seen this before. And we need to get out of here. Now.”

He knew what came next. The way it tore through a person’s body like a match to gasoline. And the way that you were already clinging to him, thighs twitching, chest heaving- 

It was already taking hold.

He had you in his arms before you could protest.

You didn’t even try to. Couldn’t. Your body felt like it was overheating, aching with a need that wasn’t yours, wasn’t fair, wasn’t natural. 

Bucky moved fast, cradling you to his chest like you were something delicate, something fragile, not like the battle-hardened woman you’d become over time.

You heard more bodies drop. His boots on the tile. Felt the sunlight on your too-warm body as Bucky cleared whatever dared get in his way. 

But all you could think about was the way your thighs kept pressing together, the way your nipples had pebbled, aching against the fabric of your suit. The way his scent enveloped you, something woodsy, with leather and whiskey, and a bit of mint. 

“Almost there,” he muttered, almost to himself.

You buried your face in his neck. 

It didn’t help. 

A small cabin, off the grid. Emergency lights only. Quiet.

You barely remember getting to the safehouse, just the hum of the quinjet, the heat still in your skin.

The last time Bucky had spoken, it was on the quinjet, and it wasn’t even to you. He’d radioed in, murmuring “She’s been drugged. I need an extraction kit and a sterile space. No contact. No questions.”  

He spoke like you couldn’t hear him. Like his voice wasn’t the only thing in your mind, the only sound that was permeating the haze that clouded your brain. 

When you’d gotten into the cabin, he’d laid you down on the worn-out couch. 

The lack of contact with Bucky’s body felt like it physically hurt.

“Fuck,” he muttered, hands in his hair, pacing now, “Fuck, fuck, this shouldn’t have happened, not to you, not now-”

“Bucky…” your voice is shaky now, “What the fuck is happening to me?”

He couldn’t stop pacing. Wouldn’t look you in the eye.

You hated that it hurt, that you wanted him to look at you. Why did you want him to look at you so bad?

“Okay,” and finally, he pauses his pacing, “You deserve to know what this is.”

You look up, desperate to catch his gaze in yours. 

He crouched, so you were eye level. His voice was low, but steady, like he had to remove every bit of emotion from his words.

“It’s a…” and he exhales, like he’s forcing himself to finish his sentence, “It’s a heat serum. HYDRA used it on captives, on…me. Some kind of sick breeding attempt.” 

He looks away for just a moment. Even though it hurts, you let him, before he continues.

“It makes you desperate for contact. Floods your body with hormones. Dopamine, oxytocin, pheromones- it’s like the most intense aphrodisiac you could imagine. It forces your system into a cycle of arousal and pain. If you don’t get relief, it doesn’t just hurt. It can cause nerve damage, organ stress, seizures” and he swallows, “in some cases, death.”

You would laugh. You would laugh if you couldn’t feel every nerve in your body screaming for something, anything. Anything from him.

So you settled for balling your hands up into fists, stopping yourself from grabbing him, and taking, taking, taking- 

“What am I supposed to do?” you whisper.

He looks at you like he was terrified of touching you, of making it worse. Like he didn’t know he was the only man who could save you. 

“I’m going to give you space,” he says softly, and you wanted to scream, “I’m going to do everything I can on my end to find a cure. I’ll call Tony, Bruce, I’ll exhaust every resource we have. I’ll stay outside this room. You try to manage it. Breathing. If you want to… touch yourself… you can. If that helps.”

Your cheeks flush even pinker, if that’s possible. 

“If- if you need me for anything,” his voice cracked.

“Just say my name.”

You force yourself to nod. Let him close the door behind him, even though it feels like he’s taking all the oxygen in the room with him. 

You tried. 

God, you tried. 

You stripped out of your suit as silently as you could, laid flat on the bed, limbs shaking. 

The sheets felt too rough. The air was too heavy. Not heavy enough. You couldn’t tell.

Every inch of you throbbed with need. It felt like your blood was on fire. 

It wasn’t just need, not like you’ve ever experienced it. It was like your body was starving. 

Your hand slipped between your thighs, and you gasped at just how wet you already were. 

But when you touched yourself, when you circled your clit, when you did more, it didn't work. Nothing worked. 

Your body would clench around nothing, unsatisfied. Empty. 

It didn’t help that the physical embodiment of your antidote was just downstairs. 

The serum was absolutely ravaging your body. No matter how many times you could get yourself there, it wasn’t yielding. If anything, it worsened every minute you were without touch. 

Without his touch. 

You felt pathetic. Like an animal in heat. 

You were a complete slave to the serum, and Bucky was here to witness your humiliation.

He could hear you. 

You knew he could hear you. His supersoldier serum ensured that he could pick up on every pitiful noise you tried to silence. 

He was sitting, back to the wall outside the bedroom, palms flat on the floor. He’d reached out to Tony, to Bruce, and the solutions were all the same. 

He’d already known that. Known that reaching out was in false hope that he wouldn’t have to do what he knew he must. 

What he swore he would never do to you. Take from you.

He heard everything. 

The creak of the bed. 

Your soft, frustrated whimpers. One choked sob. His name. Once. Barely audible.

He’d dreamed of you saying it so many times. It was better than he’d imagined, so much better.

But he couldn’t focus on any of that. He was disgusted with himself, horrified at his body’s reactions to the noises you couldn’t help but let slip. The way you couldn’t help but touch yourself, the way you had to give in to HYDRA’s puppeteering. 

He wanted you. More than he’d ever wanted you over the past year, and trust him, that was saying something.

And he hated himself for it. 

He was in love with you. Of course he was. He had been for months. The way you made him laugh. The way you challenged him. The way you always had his six without question.

But you’d never want him. Not like this.

And even if you thought you did, it wasn’t real. Not under this serum. Not when it came with pain and desperation.

This was not the need that he’d spent countless nights fantasizing that you’d have for him. 

He’d rather die than make you feel used.

Even if it killed him not to touch you.

Even if he wanted you so bad it burned.

He was starting to wonder if he’d been slipped some of the serum, too.

You were still in the room. Still unsatisfied. Still empty.

You’d touched yourself until your fingers were sore. Until you were sobbing on the mattress, serum coiling deep in your stomach, a call you couldn’t answer.

Not alone.

It wasn’t enough. 

You needed him. You thought of his hands, rough and warm. His voice, his blue eyes, his rare smile. 

You wanted him. 

Not just because of the serum.

You always had. 

The serum just dug up those buried urges and forced them into your mouth.

You felt like your entire body was a live wire. Like you were being ripped open. You knew he was just behind the door, could practically feel his body heat from here, 

You knew he would help you, if you asked. 

That almost made it worse. That it would be real to you, and to him, it’d be mercy. You’d be a means to an end to Bucky.

You closed your eyes.

Whimpered again.

You didn’t want to be a task. A pity fuck. A problem he needed to solve before it killed you.

You wanted to be wanted.

Your hands slid between your thighs again, useless and shaking. It still wasn’t enough. Your body was screaming, throbbing, wet and desperate for something more. For someone.

You bit your lip hard enough to taste blood. Tried not to cry again.

Don’t say his name. Don’t say it unless you’re ready to mean it. Don’t say it if it won’t mean anything back.

You curled in tighter.

But your body had its own voice now. A louder one.

And when the next wave hit, sharp and devastating, you broke.

“Bucky.”

It came out like a confession. 

The door opened so fast it startled you. 

He stood there, eyes burning. 

Bucky didn’t look calm anymore.

He looked like a man unraveling, like he felt every single feeling that you felt. 

He moved before you could breathe again. 

“I heard you,” and his voice was hushed, like he thought raising his voice could shatter you, “You said my name.”

You whimpered, nodding pathetically, a weak hand reaching out to him. You didn’t, couldn’t care that you were entirely bare before him. The serum had peeled you raw. 

His eyes dropped to your naked, shaking figure, and his whole body tensed. 

“Fuck,” he breathed, “You’re…”

He stopped. Like he was catching himself before saying something he shouldn’t, something he wasn’t allowed to. 

“You’re really hurting, aren’t you?”

“I need you,” you whispered, not caring about how pitiful you surely looked.

His eyes snapped to yours.

“I want to,” he said, almost brokenly, “God, I want to. You have no idea how bad I want this, want you.”

“Touch me,” and you were pleading now, inching closer to him, “Please.”

He took a step toward you. Then he stopped.

“Not unless you’re sure. Not unless it’s really me you want. Not the serum.”

His hands were clenched, like he was holding himself back. 

“It is.” 

“You’re sure it’s not just the serum?”

“Yes,” you weakly pushed yourself up on your elbows, voice shaking, “I wanted you before this, Bucky, I did, for so long, but now I feel like I’m gonna die if you don’t touch me, and I need you-”

He crossed the room before you could finish. And finally, he cut you off with a searing kiss.

You couldn’t count the times you’d tried to force your body to comply with your fingers, to just let you finish after you’d been trying for what felt like days.

Bucky’s lips on yours felt indescribably better. 

He was on his knees in front of you, his vibranium hand tangled gently in your hair, the other arm wrapped around your waist, holding your exhausted body up.

He tasted like mint, like liquor, like something you couldn’t give a fuck about because he was kissing you-

Bucky pulled back to rest his forehead on yours. 

You hated the way you wanted to cry at the loss of contact.

“If you tell me to stop,” and you could feel his warm breath on your lips, could still taste him, “I will. Even now. Even if it kills me.”

“I won’t,” you promised, hands cupping his face, fighting your need to force him back into a kiss as much as you could, but you knew he could smell how bad you needed this.

You thanked God when he kissed you again.

Hungrier, this time. The both of you. His hands were everywhere on you. His flesh hand pressed your hips into him as he climbed on top of you, the metal of his left hand grazing your stomach as it made its way up to cup your breast. The coolness of the vibranium on your feverish body made you gasp into him. You swear you could feel him smile against your lips before he slipped his tongue into your mouth, letting his thumb sweep across your pebbled nipple as he rolled his clothed hips expertly into yours. 

You clutched his shirt, pulling him in deeper, wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him back into you, making the both of you whine. 

“I know, baby, I know,” he murmured against your lips before working his way to your neck, licking and nipping softly like he wanted to know exactly how to pull those noises out of you, “Let me help you. Let me make you feel good, yeah? You gonna let me?”

You didn’t answer, hands tugging the bottom of his shirt up, mouth wide as you exposed more of his body to your greedy eyes. 

He pulled back just for a second to relieve himself of his clothes, and the feeling of his skin against yours was dizzying when he lowered himself back onto you, letting his weight pin you down as the mattress creaked beneath him. 

His hands were on you, sliding down your waist, anchoring you, holding you like he was starving. He pushed you back against the pillows slowly, watching you like you were sacred, like you’d disappear if he blinked too hard.

“You’re burning up,” he whispered, brushing sweaty hair from your face. “You poor thing.”

“Bucky, please-”

“I’ve got you now,” he murmured, trailing kisses down your jaw, your throat, the curve of your collarbone. “Not gonna let you hurt anymore.”

You gasped when his lips closed around your nipple-hot, gentle, then rough when he sucked. Your back arched. Your thighs squeezed around his hips.

He groaned. “So fucking sweet.”

His hands slid lower, down your ribs, across your hips, to your thighs. He spread you open slowly, reverently, even as your body shuddered beneath him.

“Oh my God-” he hissed, staring at you.

You were absolutely soaked. Could feel yourself running down your thighs, spilling onto the bed.

“Bucky, I-” You couldn’t finish. Couldn’t form words with the way you were throbbing, clenching around nothing.

“I know, baby,” he whispered, thumb stroking your inner thigh. “I know, you’re so full of it, huh? You need someone to take care of you.”

He pressed his forehead to your stomach. “I’ll take care of you.”

And then his hand was on you, fingers sliding through your slick, his touch so careful, so maddeningly slow.

You whimpered, hips bucking.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he murmured, teasing your clit with slow, delicious circles. “Let me learn you.”

You gasped his name when he slid one thick finger inside you.

“Jesus,” he rasped, watching your body arch,“So fucking tight. You’re clenching so hard for me.”

“More,” you begged, “Please, Bucky-more.”

“Look at you,” he groaned, adding a second finger,“You were made for me.”

He fucked you with his fingers until you were crying, leaving soft kisses on your puffy clit until until your thighs were shaking and you were clutching his wrist and sobbing his name like a prayer.

But it wasn’t enough. 

You needed more.

And he felt it.

“What do you need, sweetheart? and he nipped at your inner thigh to make you hiss before leaving a kiss on your knee, “Let me help you, yeah?”

“You,” you sobbed, “Please”

He sucked your clit in one last time before he leaned back on his heels, gazing down at you like you were on display just for him.

You moaned at the sight of him.

He knelt between your quivering legs, lining himself up, his cock thick and heavy, weeping and dark with need.

“You tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs.

You nod, knowing nothing from him will ever be too much.

“Say it,” and he sounds just as desperate as you feel, “Please, I need to hear you say it.”

“I will,” and your voice is absolutely wrecked.

That was all he needed.

He pushed in.

The stretch made you cry out. 

Not from pain. From relief. Your body was finally getting what it needed. What it had begged for.

Bucky groaned low, forehead dropping to your shoulder.”

“Fuck, so tight-” he panted, “So fucking wet, so warm-”

You’re whining beneath him, ankles locked behind his hips, nails digging into his back. 

“Please.”

He looked at you like you hung the stars.

Then he started to move.

He started slow. 

It didn’t last. 

The second you moaned, high and broken and so desperate, he snapped.

His thrusts went hard. Deep. His fingers curled around your thighs, dragging you closer, pulling you apart, angling just how he needed, until every stroke had you crying out into his neck. 

You were pulsing so tight around him he could barely breathe.

“Fuck-” he growled into your skin, teeth grazing your throat, “You’re- Jesus, you’re perfect- taking all of me so fuckin’ good-”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think.

All you could do was feel. The weight of him over you. The stretch, the pulse of him inside of you. The heat rolling off of both of you. The roar in your blood.

Every time he pulled back and slammed into you again, your body lit up like fire. You clung to him, heels dragging him deeper.

He groaned. Raw and wrecked. Like it was killing him. Like he needed it more than you did.

“You feel too fuckin’ good- too fuckin’ tight around me-”

You sobbed his name, head falling back against the pillows.

He chased every sound you made. 

One hand slid between your bodies, his thumb rubbing rough circles over your clit.”

“That’s it, baby, give it to me,” he purred, “Come on, show me how bad you need it, don’t you need it, baby?”

Your whole body tensed. 

You shattered. 

Your orgasm hit so hard it knocked the breath out of you. 

Everything you’d been working your body toward for the last few hours peaked.

You screamed his name, arching into his touch, walls fluttering around his cock in hot frantic pulses.

And that was it for him. 

“Oh, fuck-”, he moaned, hips speeding up even more.

“Gonna fill you up, yeah? You gonna let me fill this pretty pussy up, sweet girl?”

He eased a thumb past your parted lips, forcing your hazy eyes to look at him as you sucked.

“You gonna let me? You want me to, don’t you? You want me to pump you full?” he cooed, and you weren't sure if you nodded on your own accord or if he used his thumb to ease your head up and down.

“Yeah?” he murmured, voice thick and low as sin, “You gonna let me do that, sweetheart? Let me fill you up nice and deep?”

His thumb brushed under your chin, tilting your slack, blissed-out face up to meet his.

“You want that, don’t you? Want me to pump you so full you feel me for days?”

You whimpered, helpless, your body barely moving except where he moved it, his hands guiding you up and down his cock like you were nothing but pliant heat and want.

“Good girl,” he purred, and his grip tightened just a little, possessive and reverent all at once. “You don’t even have to answer- I can feel how bad you need it.”

His vibranium hand moved to rest on your lower stomach, and you felt him even more than before.

“You feel that?” he groaned, breath stuttering, dragging you down onto him so slow and deep you could feel every inch of him stretching you open, “That’s me. All of me, sittin’ so fucking deep inside you- fuck, baby…”

You choked on a moan, barely holding your eyes open, muscles trembling, brain gone fuzzy from how full you felt.

“Look at you,” he rasped, rocking his hips up into you, sharp and controlled, “So fucking perfect. So tight and wet around me. You’re taking me so good, like this pussy was made for me.”

He gripped your hips tighter, pulling you down harder. “God, you were made for me, huh? You feel it too. I know you do.”

“Bucky-” you gasped, eyes rolling as his cock brushed that devastating spot inside you.

“Shhh,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your jaw, still fucking up into you, slow but relentless, “I’ve got you. You just take it, sweetheart. Let me give it to you.”

His hand slid between your legs, thumb rubbing circles over your clit. Fast. Focused. Filthy.

You cried out, body jerking, the pleasure coming too fast, too sharp.

“There she is,” he breathed, voice hungry. “You’re gonna come for me again, aren’t you? Gonna come all over my cock while I fill you up-fuck, yeah, that’s it-”

“Please,” you whimpered, brain gone, body twitching under him.

“You want it?” he growled, holding you flush to him now, one hand behind your back, the other rubbing your clit like he owned you. “Want me to stuff you full? Fill this perfect pussy until you can’t think straight?”

You sobbed.

“Beg for it, baby,” he said darkly, lips brushing your ear. “Tell me you want me to breed you. Tell me you want to be mine.”

“Yours,” you gasped, desperate, shaking, not even sure what you were begging for anymore, “Yours, please, Bucky, please-”

He let out a guttural sound.

Then he slammed into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt, and came with a groan so raw it made you clench around him like a vice.

“Fuck- take it-take all of it-”

Hot, thick pulses spilled into you, flooding your core, his hands holding you tight as you cried out and came again, your body milking every drop of him like you never wanted it to end, so much of him that you overflowed, could feel it seeping out of you.

You collapsed against him, boneless. Spent. Whimpering through the aftershocks.

And still, he held you. Stroking your back, whispering into your skin.

“You did so good for me, baby…So fuckin’ good. So beautiful. Mine.”

ok all done! just absolutely horrifying that im posting this on fathers day huh LMAO

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i ship them- WOAH WHAT??? WHO SAID THAT???